JSA: Atrocity
by Bruce Wayne
Summary: Based in 1961, The Justice Society of America is reformed to battle villians bent on destroying the world. Chapter 20 is now up! Will the JSA members be able to foil False-Face's plan? Final installment to the Atrocity story!
1. Chapter 1

JSA: Atrocity

By Bruce Wayne

Chapter 1

January 20, 1961 - Washington, D.C. - Earth Two

It's 12:13 p.m. on the steps of the United States Capitol. A new president has been sworn in and is currently giving his Inaugural Address to the nation.

_"We observe today not a victory of party but a celebration of freedom -- symbolizing an end as well as a beginning -- signifying renewal as well as change. For I have sworn before you and Almighty God the same solemn oath our forbears prescribed nearly a century and three-quarters ago."_

In New York City, Doctor Charles McNider is carefully listening to the speech over his radio. McNider is a former physician who now writes scathing editorials and detective stories based on figures in organized crime. McNider became very interested in crime a number of years ago after he became a victim himself.

It was late one evening when the doctor was called upon by police to treat a mob informant by the name of Brown. Brown had a run afoul of a local Mafioso known as "Boss" Maroni. As McNider was treating Brown, a local gangster threw a hand grenade into the room and the resulting explosion killed Brown, his nurse, and the attending police officer. McNider managed to survive, but the explosion left him blinded for life. He abandoned his medical practice and devoted himself to criminal research.

The words to the young president's speech seemed to take McNider's mind back some years into the past to another time when McNider had been inspired to help others in trouble. Back to a time when McNider, who was known as Doctor Mid-Nite, was part of a very elite group who were called "mystery-men."

_"The world is very different now. For man holds in his mortal hands the power to abolish all forms of human poverty and all forms of human life. And yet the same revolutionary beliefs for which our forebears fought are still at issue around the globe -- the belief that the rights of man come not from the generosity of the state but from the hand of God._

_We dare not forget today that we are the heirs of that first revolution. Let the word go forth from this time and place, to friend and foe alike, that the torch has been passed to a new generation of Americans -- born in this century, tempered by war, disciplined by a hard and bitter peace, proud of our ancient heritage -- and unwilling to witness or permit the slow undoing of those human rights to which this nation has always been committed, and to which we are committed today at home and around the world."_

In Gateway City, police detective Jim Corrigan was listening to the same speech on his car radio as he drove to the scene of a shooting across town. 

The new president's words were making him remember when another group of individuals were tempered in a different kind of war. A war against evil. The evil that always seemed to raise its head on this planet.

Corrigan was no ordinary man. Jim Corrigan was actually dead. A walking dead man. At one time, Corrigan was a New York City police detective in pursuit of one of the "Big Apple's" most notorious gangsters, a man named Gats Benson. Corrigan had developed a personal vendetta against Benson, vowing his arrest. A police informant by the name of Louis Snipes gave Corrigan a tip on a Benson hit at a local warehouse. When Corrigan arrived, he was clubbed unconscious and taken to a hideout near the Hudson River. Benson confronted Corrigan there, swearing vengeance for Corrigan's past interference. Under his orders, Benson's men bound Corrigan in a 55-gallon drum and filled it with quick-drying cement. They then sealed the drum and threw it into the river. Corrigan choked to death on the cement before the barrel had reached the river's bottom.

As he died, Corrigan's soul journeyed to the place of ultimate judgment. Confronted with the reality of his demise, Corrigan was enraged and cursed both his fate and those who allowed it. When he was judged, Corrigan was deemed unfit for Heaven and undeserving for Hell. It was decided that he would be the recipient of what was called the Spectre force. The Spectre force's purpose at the time was to avenge innocent blood, but it required a mortal host to maintain a "human" perspective. Corrigan became the latest host.

The Spectre force was formed in the distant beginning of human civilization, when humanity began to recognize and seek interaction with God. To communicate His occasional displeasure with humanity, God created a being imbued with a small portion of Himself to wreck His vengeance as required. This entity, literally the Wrath of God, became the Spectre.

_"Let every nation know, whether it wishes us well or ill, that we shall pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, support any friend, oppose any foe to assure the survival and the success of liberty._

_This much we pledge -- and more."_

In Manhattan, millionaire Wesley Dodds remembered a pledge he made some time ago as he watched the address on his television. A pledge to be the scourge of criminals that prowled the streets of New York City. Dodds had spent part of his youth in the Far East and learned Oriental herbalism, martial arts, and even origami. Throughout much of his life he had traveled around the world from Europe to the South Seas. After college and his father's death, Dodds became the manager of a vast estate and an investor. 

At some time in his life, Dodds became plagued by extremely vivid dreams of criminal activities. The dreams would not allow him to rest. Dodds used his fortune to finance a lab and develop a formula for sedative and hypnotic gasses. He then bought several kinds of gas masks and set himself up as an avenger against evil called The Sandman. He went out into the world and pursued the criminals that haunted his dreams. But the thought crossed Dodds' mind that _"Those days were gone."** He wished those days could somehow return.**_

_"To those old allies whose cultural and spiritual origins we share, we pledge the loyalty of faithful friends. United there is little we cannot do in a host of cooperative ventures. Divided there is little we can do -- for we dare not meet a powerful challenge at odds and split asunder."_

Also in New York City, this time at Grant's Gym in the borough of Queens, Ted Grant, former championship boxer, stopped to listen to the president's speech that was blaring over the radio. He remembered his old allies and the origins he shared with a group of special individuals who handled cooperative ventures against those who wanted to do harm against innocent people. Grant hated bullies who preyed on the weak.

Ted Grant was the son of Henry Grant. Henry Grant had been a frail child and swore on the birth of his son that the boy would not suffer those same frailities. Throughout his childhood, Ted was trained in all manner of athletics. Of all the sports, however, Ted excelled most in boxing. 

When he graduated high school, Ted did pursue a boxing career but went to college to study medicine. He took part in the college boxing team part-time to keep in shape. His coach was Joe Morgan, a former championship boxer.

Halfway through college, Grant's father died and his father's debts consumed whatever savings he had. Unable to continue his studies, Grant left school and tried to find a job. Unfortunately, the U.S. economy was not at its best and Grant failed repeatedly to find gainful employment. 

One night, he happened upon two muggers assaulting a famous boxer, "Socker" Smith. With Grant's help, Smith overcame the assailants, an act which earned Grant Smith's gratitude. Grant joined Smith as a professional boxer under the management of Flint and Skinner and proved himself to be championship material. He later became the undefeated heavyweight champion boxer.

But, somehow, that still wasn't enough for Grant. He needed more out of life. He felt there was a special calling for his life and he eventually became another "mystery-man," named Wildcat, who battled the forces of evil. But that was long ago.

_"To those new states whom we welcome to the ranks of the free, we pledge our word that one form of colonial control shall not have passed away merely to be replaced by a far more iron tyranny. We shall not always expect to find them supporting our view. But we shall always hope to find them strongly supporting their own freedom -- and to remember that, in the past, those who foolishly sought power by riding the back of the tiger ended up inside._

_To those people in the huts and villages of half the globe struggling to break the bonds of mass misery, we pledge our best efforts to help them help themselves, for whatever period is required -- not because the communists may be doing it, not because we seek their votes, but because it is right. If a free society cannot help the many who are poor, it cannot save the few who are rich._

_To our sister republics south of our border, we offer a special pledge -- to convert our good words into good deeds -- in a new alliance for progress -- to assist free men and free governments in casting off the chains of poverty. But this peaceful revolution of hope cannot become the prey of hostile powers. Let all our neighbors know that we shall join with them to oppose aggression or subversion anywhere in the Americas. And let every other power know that this Hemisphere intends to remain the master of its own house."_

Looking up at the podium that had been built next to the Capitol building, those words struck a definite cord with Diana Prince. Diana worked for U.S. Army intelligence and was stationed in Washington, D.C. She was very glad to hear the new president speak the inspiring words that he was -- she believed strongly in the same ideals.

Diana was the daughter of Hippolyte, immortal queen of the Amazons of Paradise Island. Even as a young girl, Diana was seen as an exceptional child, displaying incredible strength and agility. Events that occurred on Paradise Island allowed Diana to come to the U.S. where she went on to battle evil.

Unlike most of the other "mystery-men" of her time, Diana in her guise of Wonder Woman, continued her career while many of her colleagues had gone into semi-retirement. Dark-haired and beautiful, Diana missed her former colleagues and wondered what they were presently doing.

_"To that world assembly of sovereign states, the United Nations, our last best hope in an age where the instruments of war have far outpaced the instruments of peace, we renew our pledge of support -- to prevent it from becoming merely a forum for invective -- to strengthen its shield of the new and the weak -- and to enlarge the area in which its writ may run."_

At stately Wayne Manor, located just outside of Gotham City, Bruce Wayne was watching the address on his television in the living room of his mansion. Also with him were his wife Kathy Kane Wayne and ward Dick Grayson.

Bruce had been raised in an environment of wealth and privilege and enjoyed a happy childhood until the age of seven. One evening, Bruce and his parents were walking home from a movie. When they crossed what would later be known as Crime Alley, they were confronted by a mugger. The robber demanded Martha Wayne's jewelry and any cash they may have on hand. When Thomas Wayne resisted, the suspect shot him. In the excitement, Bruce's mother suffered a massive heart attack and died shortly thereafter.

The deaths of his parents traumatized young Bruce and marked a turning point in his life. He later swore to pursue all criminals to avenge the deaths of his parents and devoted himself to attaining physical and intellectual excellence. He underwent rigorous physcial training and educated himself in criminal science and police techniques.

Bruce Wayne was an affluent Gotham City businessman and socialite. One night in his study, Bruce reflected on his oath to avenge the deaths of his parents and how his oath would best be fulfilled. He decided he needed to leave the traditional avenues of justice and become a symbol of something that would inspire fear and awe in the criminal ranks. As if an omen, a bat flew through the window of the study and inspired Bruce. He decided that he would adopt the guise of a bat and developed the identity that made him the scourge of Gotham's underworld -- Batman.

Like Wonder Woman, Batman had remained quite active fighting the forces of evil for many years. His new wife was also a crimefighter known as Batwoman and Dick Grayson was the long-time partner of the Caped Crusader known as Robin, the Boy Wonder.

_"Finally, to those nations who would make themselves our adversary, we offer not a pledge but a request: that both sides begin anew the quest for peace, before the dark powers of destruction unleashed by science engulf all humanity in planned or accidental self-destruction."_

In Gateway City, Terry Sloane was watching the speech on a television in the English Department professors lounge at Gateway University. The words _"accidental self-destruction" bothered him for some reason. He didn't like the sound of that. The words made it sound like the world was a dangerous place._

Being another former "mystery-man," Sloane knew firsthand that the world was indeed a very dangerous place with villians who wished to make it so. Sloane had been one of the least known men who tried to go out in a costume and right wrongs. Sloane believed very strongly in fair play. Often, though, it seemed like the world was anything but fair.

A child prodigy, Sloane as a young boy demonstrated superb skills in athletics, martial arts and engineering skills. He entered college at the age of 12 and graduated in less than a year. After obtaining the maximum formal education available to him, he devoted himself to athletics, again showing superb performance. He later turned his attention to business, where he rapidly became successful and wealthy. 

The accomplishments Sloane had achieved by a rather early age, may had been considerable, but they left Terry feeling unchallenged and depressed. He felt pressured by living a so-called "perfect" existence.

As he was driving home from work one day, he noticed a young woman standing on the edge of a bridge. Before his eyes, she jumped into the river. Acting quickly, Sloane saved the woman from drowning. It turned out that the woman was the sister of a man who had fallen in with a gang of criminals. Sloane adopted the identity of Mister Terrific and found a renewed sense of purpose in defeating the gang and rescuing the woman's brother from a life of crime.

It had been a while since Sloane had seen action as Mister Terrific. Could world events be changing to cause Terry to come back out of self-imposed retirement to help advocate "fair play" and make the world a safer place for every law abiding citizen? Only time would tell.

_"We dare not tempt them with weakness. For only when our arms are sufficient beyond doubt can we be certain beyond doubt that they will never be employed._

_But neither can two great and powerful groups of nations take comfort from our present course -- both sides overburdened by the cost of modern weapons, both rightly alarmed by the steady spread of the deadly atom, yet both racing to alter that uncertain balance of terror that stays the hand of mankind's final war."_

In New York City, archaeologists Carter and Shiera Hall watched the new president on the television in Carter's museum office. The words they heard sounded ominous. Shiera felt a chill go up her spine. As world-renown archaeologists, the Carters had dug up the remains of lost civilizations many times. Could history repeat itself?

Probably next to Jim Corrigan, Carter Hall was a real "mystery-man." He was said to be the reincarnation of an Egyptian prince named Khufu. One day Hall received a gift from an archeologist named James Rock. Rock had sent Hall a dagger with a crystal blade, and when Hall touched the blade, he fell into a trance. In a dreamlike state, Carter saw the life of Khufu Nunfold as in the days of ancient Egypt.

When he awoke, Hall felt strange and left his house to wander the streets of the city. When he passed a subway entrance, several people emerged, fleeing a tragedy on the tracks. As he rushed to investigate, Carter ran into a young woman, the reincarnation of his lost love, Shiera.

The two investigated the subway station to find the subway tracks being flooded with thousands of volts of electricity, killing many people. Hall vowed to investigate the cause of the disaster and took Shiera to his home. Carter donned  a mask of a hawk and wings made of Nth Metal, a discovery of Hall's. He tracked the source of the electrcity to the lab of a man who was the reincarnation of the high priest Hath-Set. Hawkman, as he would be later be known as, destroyed the lab.

It had been many years since Hawkman and Hawkgirl had flown the skies of Earth. Shiera and Carter looked into each others eyes and both could see a certain wish in them. 

_"So let us begin anew -- remembering on both sides that civility is not a sign of weakness, and sincerity is always subject to proof. Let us never negotiate out of fear. But let us never fear to negotiate._

_Let both sides explore what problems unite us instead of belaboring those problems which divide us._

_Let both sides, for the first time, formulate serious and precise proposals for the inspection and control of arms -- to bring the absolute power to destroy other nations under the absolute control of all nations."_

In yet another part of New York City, Rex Tyler, the chief executive officer of Tyler Chemicals, heard those words as he watched the television in the study of his home. The president spoke of problem-solving -- something Tyler had considerable experience in.

At one time, before he had his own corporation, Tyler was a chemist employed at Bannermain Chemical. Many of his colleagues, there, considered Tyler to be humble, meek and timid. He was nicknamed "Tick-Tock" for his obsessive punctuality.

In the late hours of the evening, Tyler worked hard on a private project -- the development of a drug that would give men miraculous powers. Tyler called the drug "Miraclo," and after some brief experiments with animals, tested his Miraclo formula on himself. He was astonished with the effectiveness of the drug. For a single hour, he had incredible strength and speed, increased resistance to physical harm, and the ability to leap great heights. Tyler decided to use his discovery to become a force for good in the form of a "mystery-man" called the Man of the Hour, or Hourman.

It had been a long time since Tyler had donned the uniform that represented justice and strength. Tyler had often wished he could relive those old days and see his old colleagues. What would ever cause such a thing, Tyler didn't know.

_"Let both sides seek to invoke the wonders of science instead of its terrors. Together let us explore the stars, conquer the deserts, eradicate disease, tap the ocean depths and encourage the arts and commerce._

_Let both sides unite to heed in all corners of the earth the command of Isaiah -- to 'undo the heavy burdens ... and let the oppressed go free.'_

_And if the beachhead of cooperation may push back the jungle of suspicion, let both sides join in creating a new endeavor, not a balance of power, but a new world of law, where the strong are just and the weak secure and the peace preserved._

_All this will not be finished in the first one hundred days. Nor will it be finished in the first one thousand days, nor in the life of this Administration, nor even perhaps in our lifetime on this planet. But let us begin._

_In your hands, my fellow citizens, more than mine, will rest the final success or failure of our course. Since this country was founded, each generation of Americans has been summoned to give testimony to its national loyalty. The graves of young Americans who answered the call to service surround the globe._

_Now the trumpet summons us again -- not as a call to bear arms, though arms we need -- not as a call to battle, though embattled we are -- but a call to bear the burden of a long twilight struggle, year in and year out, 'rejoicing in hope, patient in tribulation' -- a struggle against the common enemies of man: tyranny, poverty, disease and war itself._

_Can we forge against these enemies a grand and global alliance, North and South, East and West, that can assure a more fruitful life for mankind? Will you join in that historic effort?_

_In the long history of the world, only a few generations have been granted the role of defending freedom in its hour of maximum danger. I do not shrink from this responsibility -- I welcome it. I do not believe that any of us would exhange places with any other people or any other generation. The energy, the faith, the devotion which can bring to this endeavor will light our country and all who serve it -- and the glow from that fire can truly light the world._

_And so, my fellow Americans: ask not what your country can do for you -- ask what you can do for your country._

_My fellow citizens of the world: ask not what America will do for you, but what together we can do for the freedom of man."_

In Calvin City, Professor Al Pratt of Calvin College listened intently to the address and was inspired by the words. Pratt had always had a strong sense of loyalty and responsibility. Being a mere one inch over five feet in height, Pratt in his younger days had often been the target of harassment. He was often referred to as "Atom Al" by his tormentors.

One day Pratt was approached by a panhandler. Feeling sympathetic, Pratt bought dinner for the old beggar. In the course of the conversation, it was revealed that the beggar was Joe Morgan, a former heavyweight boxer and trainer.

Pratt shared with Morgan his craving for greater strength and fighting ability. Morgan seized on the youth's obsession by offering his services as a trainer. Pratt had inheirited some property from a deceased uncle, so he provided Morgan with housing in exchange for his services as trainer. Using weekends and study breaks, Pratt trained intensively with Morgan.

In a few months time, Morgan decided the training was complete, and the two moved back to Calvin City. Morgan even provided Pratt with a calling card that said "The Atom," in reference to the word's former meaning of "small" and its new meaning of 'powerful." Pratt eventually donned a costume and became yet another "mystery-man" for a while.

As he sat, listening to the president's speech, Pratt's mind wandered to the days of yesteryear and wondered if it was possible to relive them once again. It was a question that he had no real answer to.

_"Finally, whether you are citizens of America or citizens of the world, ask of us here the same high standards of strength and sacrifice which we ask of you. With a good conscience our only sure reward, with history the final judge of our deeds, let us go forth to lead the land we love, asking His blessing and His help, but knowing that here on earth God's work must truly be our own."_

As the speech concluded, there was applause not only at the nation's capitol but also from around the world. It was an inspiring speech that would live down through the coming generations.

But the speech may had also inspired a certain group of individuals whose mission it would be to save the world once again. A group of individuals who were once known as The Justice Society of America.

* _The complete Inaugural Address of President John F. Kennedy was included here._

 __

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

JSA: Atrocity 

By Bruce Wayne 

DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters portrayed in this story are copyright by DC Comics, an AOL/Time/Warner company. They are used without permission for entertainment without profit by the author. 

An Elseworld's story: Stories, situation or events involving familiar characters in unfamiliar settings. 

Chapter 2 

The European villian known to the world as The Boomer had always liked tinkering -- especially with clocks. That had first led him, he reflected now as he hid, to bombs. 

He heard footsteps crunching on the roof, slipping then crunching closer. He drew the lockblade folding knife from the right hip pocket of his Levi's and waited. 

He recognized the sound of metal scraping leather -- the policeman had drawn his gun. 

Boomer pressed himself flatter against the red brick of the chimney. 

He heard a tiny mechanical click; the footsteps were getting closer now. 

A voice, very near but below the roofline, asked in German, _"Was ist los?" Then the same voice queried again, __"Where are you?" _

From beside the chimney, inches from Boomer, came a reply, _"It's dark up here, Fritz!" _

_"Be careful!" _

_"I am, Fritz!" The near voice again. _

Boomer held his breath, his knife not yet open. 

The crunching started again. Suddenly the plainclothes policeman came around the chimney, a startled look in his green eyes as he spotted The Boomer. 

One-handed, Boomer flicked open the lockblade, ramming it forward into the red-haired policeman. The pistol discharged, but Boomer felt no pain. The villian again rammed the knife into the officer's chest. The young man screamed in German, _ "It's him! Fritz!" _

The pistol discharged once more. The Boomer slipped, skidding on the peaked roof as he tried to reach for the gun. It clattered down the roof shingles, following the young officer as he rolled off the roof. 

The Boomer lost his balance. He slipped and tumbled forward. 

He saw a rain gutter and frantically grabbed for its edge to stop his downward plunge. His fingers hurt as he held it. Then the gutter tore away, swinging out from the roofline. A gunshot. Another shot. His ears rang as one of the bullets punched into the rain gutter. 

_"Polizei!" shouted a voice from the ground. _

The Boomer hung from the gutter as it started to sink under his weight. 

_"Hilfe!" he shouted. __"Hilfe!" He looked below him, dizzy. __"Schnell!" _

The policeman on the ground knelt beside his young red-haired colleague. The man was obviously dead. 

The Boomer heard a voice from the ground. The one who was apparently Fritz looked up, his pistol clenched in both fists. The criminal's eyes were riveted on the muzzle. The words weren't for him. He looked further along the street below. Uniformed police were running and shouting in German. _"Call an ambulance ... ambulance!" _

Policemen had discovered bombs and explosives in Boomer's apartment; he was wanted by the authorities in four European countries; he had just led the police in a six-block foot chase through the streets of Hamburg. Now, as he hung by his hands from a collapsing rain gutter, he laughed. 

But he stopped laughing. There was hate in the eyes of the young policeman, the one named Fritz, who held the gun pointed at him. 

He had hung there for five minutes, he guessed. A fire ladder was raised beside him now as policemen cordoned off the area below him. A lean-faced man with tousled brown hair, wearing an open khaki trench coat with a woolen muffler around his neck, ascended the ladder. 

The Boomer knew the face. It belonged to the Englishman assigned to work with the West German police. His name was Durkey. 

"You speak English, don't you?" the man said. Without waiting for an answer he said, "Of course you do, Boomer." 

"Get me down, Durkey," Boomer snarled. 

"Yes, I must get you down. Sad. I'd rather let you just hang there until you drop. Then you could die, like that young policeman." 

"Go to hell, Durkey!" 

"You know us, don't you," the Englishman said, his voice low. "We won't let you just flop down there and die." 

"It's your weakness," Boomer gasped, his back aching, his fingers numb. He doubted he could hang on any longer. 

"Here let me help," Durkey said. He reached out and grabbed Boomer's right ankle, placing his foot on a rung. The Boomer released his hold on the gutter. Durkey grasped at his free right hand. The criminal was losing his grip with his left hand, falling, but something was holding him. 

It was Durkey. The Englishman's left arm was threaded through the ladder rungs; both hands were clamped tight on Boomer's right wrist. The Boomer swung there for a moment. "Why -- why don't you let me fall, kill me?" The criminal bomber swung, watching the strain in the hard cheeks of the Englishman. 

"You said it, Boomer -- it is our weakness, isn't it?" and Boomer swung his left arm around to grasp at the ladder, Durkey never letting go. 

*** 

All these strange events took place in 1961 on Earth-Two. Earth-Two is a duplicate Earth that occupies the same space as our own earth, but separated from it because it vibrates at a different speed. It is noted that two objects -- like our planet Earth and its duplicate -- can inhabit the same space if they vibrate -- as all matter does to an extent -- at different speeds. 

*** 

The Boomer stood in the witness dock, not having bothered with a lawyer. He knew what the verdict would be even as the judge droned on. For the bombing of the synagogue in Cologne that killed eighteen people; for the derailment by incendiary device of the train near Stuttgart when forty-seven died; for the airplane bombing out of Berlin that sent 80 to their deaths; for the dissemination of destructive devices; for the murder of the policeman -- Boomer hadn't wasted his time to bother remembering the man's name -- and for a long list Boomer had stopped listening to midway. 

He heard the verdict. 

He smiled. It could have been nothing else. 

He watch Durkey's face. Someday, when he escaped, he would leave Durkey a nice "present" on the engine block of his car. Then the true escape would come. 

Guilty, indeed. 

*** 

Durkey seemed to whisper; Boomer only half listened to him. "It's an honor to be allowed to accompany you to prison, Mr Boomer. To see you shut away." 

The Boomer said nothing. 

"You might be able to have your sentence adjusted. Perhaps a more posh prison rather than the hole we're putting you in. Just tell us about False-Face." 

Still Boomer said nothing. 

"I know you probably don't know his face. No one does, we understand. He fancies himself a master of disguise, he does. But tell us what you know. If you do, we'll turn this car around and find you a better prison, give you a new identity. Plastic surgery, perhaps, so False-Face will never be able to find you." 

The Boomer remained silent, staring down at his manacled hands. The belly chain around his waist irritated him over the blue prison shirt he wore. His ankles were manacled, too. He sat on Durkey's right in the back seat. He stared at the back of the driver, then at the guard beside the driver in the front seat. The Boomer's gaze traveled slowly sideways toward Durkey, who continued to speak. 

"Why don't you consider it, Boomer? Because if you think False-Face can help you, you're insane. He cannot. A decoy car was sent out with a man dressed and built like you. If False-Face puts together some sort of crew, he'll attack the wrong car. You'll still go to prison." 

Again Boomer did not reply. He was waiting. 

"False-Face is dangerous. What if we put it out on the street that you told us everything you knew, put you under maximum security but under your own name. It would be only a matter of time before he got you. False-Face is very good. I'm offering you a choice -- a false name in a better prison, or I can make you a sitting duck, as the Americans say. Would you like that?" 

The Boomer merely watched the scenery along the country road, slightly distorted through the bullet-resistant glass of the police car. 

"What do you hope to achieve by silence? Is it loyalty to that madman?" 

The Boomer looked at Durkey, finally saying something. "Your conversation, Herr Durkey -- it grows tiresome." 

Durkey's eyes hardened. "Look, you bastard, it can grow a good deal more tiresome for you in that prison. We'll be there in less than an hour. Think about that. And think about our letting it out that you spilled your guts, Boomer! Think about how tiresome that could get!" 

The Boomer said nothing more, shrugging his shoulders and returning his gaze to the distorted scenery. 

Durkey spoke again. "False-Face is slime, Boomer, slime. A murderer of women and children. Hiding behind disguises, he's too afraid to show himself." 

"Herr Durkey, you are very tedious, indeed." The Boomer sighed. 

"Tedious? You fucking bloody bastard, I'll show you tedious." Durkey, his face livid, turned forward and reached across the front seat to the driver, tapping him on the shoulder. "Stop the car. Stop the bloody car!" 

"But, Herr Inspector," the driver pleaded, half turning over his shoulder. 

"Stop the bloody car, man!" 

"But, Herr Inspector!" 

"Take this bastard to his damned prison and pick me up on the way back. I can't stand the smell! Stop, I tell you!" 

"Ja, Herr Inspector." The driver nodded, pulling off to the side of the two-lane highway. The Boomer was watching, interested. 

"And you," Durkey shrieked. "You -- you filth." He slapped Boomer. The Boomer's head snapped back, and a thin trickle of blood started as his lip impacted against teeth. 

Both the driver and the guard beside him turned around at the sound of the slap. Durkey's wrists jabbed forward. His hands were cocked back at bizarre angles, and a clear liquid squirted out from beneath each wrist into the faces of the driver and the guard. Durkey -- his voice somehow different -- rasped, "Cyanide, Boomer!" 

The Boomer bent his head forward between his knees, covering his face with his manacled hands. In a blur of motion he saw Durkey's raincoated right arm reach past his face. 

The Boomer heard the click of the door lock beside him. He felt himself being shoved out onto the road. Then he landed on his right shoulder and hip. 

He pushed himself up to his knees. Hearing a car door slam, he glanced up. 

Still on his knees, he stared ahead at the raincoat of Inspector Durkey. 

The Boomer looked up as Durkey started to speak, but the inspector's voice was different somehow. "Really, Boomer, you are so loyal to me." Then the British accent again. "That False-Face, the slime, the killer," and then the slight German inflection. A voice he knew -- False Face's. The man in the raincoat laughed. "That killer has struck again, hasn't he, hmmm? Cyanide gas and two dead pigs, ja?" 

The laugh -- Boomer had heard it before, though he'd never seen the face. Feeling confused, stupid, still on his knees, he stammered, "But False-Face ... Durkey, the Englander ... the police -- how --?" 

"Durkey never quite completed the trip from London to Stuttgart. There was a tragic accident at Heathrow Airport; the body was hidden. An easy matter to match the passport photo of a man no one in West Germany had ever seen." 

"You -- you on the ladder before the trial?" 

"Why do you think I saved your bloody life, Boomer? For Durkey to do it he have had to have been a bigger bloody ass than the police usually are. Been rather nice, actually, living as Durkey for the past nine weeks, reviewing all the police files, mislaying a few interesting sets of fingerprints -- such as my own. Which the ignorant swines never even knew they had in their possession! Ha." He laughed again, then fell silent. 

The Boomer, still kneeling, looked up as False-Face's hands reached out to his shoulders. 

"You are loyal, Boomer. This is something money cannot buy." 

The Boomer felt stupid for thinking it, felt somehow he was being knighted by False-Face. 

"Get up, my friend -- I shall help you." False-Face -- his hands somehow irresisibly powerful -- drew Boomer up until he was standing. 

The Boomer looked at his manacled hands. 

"But F.F. --" 

"These shackles -- we will dispose of them soon. There is a job ... the rarest and best opportunity. And I need your expertise with the use of bombs, with timing devices. I need you. You will help? I will bring the United States, all the Western democracies and the Communist bastards, all of them crawling on their knees. But no hands will reach out to uplift them as I have uplifted you. You and I, we shall go on to restore the glory lost in the dark hours of 1944. I feel his blood. It surges through me. His precious blood. You will help bring about this new glory, Boomer?" 

"Ja," Boomer gasped, breathlessly. "Ja, mein --" 

"No, not yet," the former 'Durkey' said smiling. The Boomer wondered if False-Face's real face ever did that. 

*** 

Wildcat begins an interesting adventure in chapter 3. 

*** 

Come visit me and/or Chris Dee and the other fine writers at Gotham After Dark Message Board at: http://pub101.ezboard.com/bgothampm 


	3. Chapter 3

JSA: Atrocity 

By Bruce Wayne 

DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters portrayed in this story are copyright by DC Comics, an AOL/Time/Warner company. They are used without permission for entertainment without profit by the author. 

An Elseworld's story: Stories, situation or events involving familiar characters in unfamiliar settings. 

Chapter 3 

"I've got a question for you, Champ --" 

Ted Grant raised his right hand, stopping the young Flying Squad sergeant. "Please, it's Mr Grant. I stopped being the heavyweight champion of the world a few years ago." 

"That's what I wanted to ask, sir," the sergeant persisted. "How did you get involved in the boxing world? And I think you're still young enough to get your belt back from Sonny Liston." 

Ted Grant smiled and leaned back against the chalk ledge of the blackboard, studying the eighteen faces he'd come to know in the past few days. 

He looked down at the boxing gloves on the table in front of him. Grant moved away from the blackboard and walked across the platform to lean against the table where the gloves lay. 

He sat on the edge, then began to speak. "I grew up in Queens, New York. Throughout my childhood, I was pretty good at sports. But I was best at boxing. When I graduated high school, I didn't pursue a boxing career, I went to college. You see, I really wanted to be a doctor. I did take part in the college boxing team on a part-time basis. My coach was Joe Morgan, who was, at one time, a championship boxer, himself. Just after my sophomore year, my dad died and his debts consumed whatever savings he had. So, I wasn't able to continue college and had to get a job. The American economy, at the time, wasn't very good and I really couldn't find a good job." 

The Flying Squad members nodded in understanding. 

"One night, I came across two muggers assaulting a famous boxer. Some of you may had heard of him -- "Socker" Smith. With some help from me, Smith chased off the assailants and he thanked me for helping him. I joined him as a professional boxer and eventually went on to become the heavyweight champ. That's all she wrote." 

The Flying Squad members laughed. Grant shrugged and felt himself smile. "So, gentlemen, here I am." He looked down at his hands for a moment, then at the Flying Squad members. "Any other questions?" 

The young sergeant raised his hand again. 

Grant nodded. 

"Sir, what happened to you in your last fight? How'd you lose to that bloody masher?" 

Ted Grant cleared his throat. "I was a little under a weather. I should've been in better shape to defend my title." 

Grant forced his mouth into a smile, thinking back how the night before his title defense, he, as Wildcat, had taken some serious blows and was hurt pretty bad by his old nemisis -- The Huntress. 

"Now any questions? About self-defense, perhaps?" 

A voice called out from the back, "Corporal Simmons, sir!" 

"Yes, Corporal?" Grant nodded to the man, whose hair seemed darker than the black overalls he wore. 

"Could you tell me why your prefer the 'one-two' combination in a fight? Could you tell us why, sir?" 

Ted Grant nodded. He pointed to another policeman sitting in the front row before him and motioned him to stand. The man looked somewhat nervous, not sure if he was going to be an improvised punching bag for the former heavyweight champion of the world. Grant gentley grabbed him by the shoulders and stood him where he wanted. 

"It's a personal preference largely. First of all, it will help to put down a larger man than you are -- and you'll need that on the street. Who remembers what I said was one of the primary virtues of striking an opponent square in the solar plexus?" 

Several hands shot up, and Grant picked a brown-haired, slightly older corporal. "Go ahead." 

"I believe you said, sir," the clipped voice came back, "that such a blow would most likely surprise your opponent and knock him off balance." 

Grant threw some very quick blows to his improvised punching bag, but did not touch the man. The man rocked back on his heels and blinked at the air punches that were thrown at him. 

Grant said to the man, "Forgive the poor breach of not warning you before I started throwing punches at you, but weren't you knocked off balance, even though I didn't touch you -- just for an instant?" 

The man nodded. 

"Now imagine what would had happened if I really did strike you. That's my point gentlemen -- keep your opponent off balance and you should have a good chance of coming out victorious." 

The former boxing champ continued, "On the street, you have to make do with your hands as weapons since, for the God of me, I don't understand how you can do police work without carrying a gun. The more you learn how to defend yourself, the better off you'll be. It's simple logic." 

Suddenly an alarm sounded. The siren's wail grew in intensity. The men jumped from their seats at the sound of the voice over the loudspeaker. "This is not a drill. This is not a drill." 

The eighteen men of the London Metropolitan Police Flying Squad were moving toward the polished brass firepole dominating the far right corner of the room. One after the other they dived toward it and disappeared below the circular hole in the floor. 

Only one man beside Grant still remained in the room -- Inspector Hall, who was smiling oddly. "I say, Ted!" 

"Yes?" 

"Just a moment, will you?" 

Grant watched Hall walk across the room to the red wall-mounted telephone beside the chalkboard. 

Hall picked up the receiver. "Central? Hall, here. What's the flap for the Flying Squad?" Hall nodded, looking thoughtful, his right thumb hooked into the right front pocket of the vest of his Oxford-gray suit. "Hmmm, I see." He nodded again, extremely sober looking, Grant thought. "At Marchand's -- yes. How many? There was a pause. "And the bobby? Ethington -- yes. Good chap. No -- yes." Another long pause. "Cheerio," Hall said, and hung up. 

Grant looked at him. 

"Nasty business, I'm afraid, Ted." 

"What is it, Sir Edward?" 

"IRA -- that lot. They've taken over one of the top floors of Marchand's Department Store in the central business district. Ethington -- Metropolitan man, known him for years. IDed them. Shot him dead through the chest. What you'd call a 'hit squad,' no doubt. Not sure how how many hostages. They may have a bomb. Care to see the Flying Squad in action?" 

Grant raised his eyebrows. He looked at Hall. He felt under the table for a briefcase he carried some gear in. 

Ted Grant started toward the firepole, getting a good grip on the briefcase. He reached out to grasp the firepole. He glanced back. 

Sir Edward Hall was looking at him strangely. "My God, man, aren't you planning to use the stairs?" 

Grant smiled. "Always wanted to try one of these." Grant threw himself out, wrapping his legs around the pole as he started to slide. His stomach lurched. It was faster down than he'd thought. 

*** 

Police vans and cars with flashing lights were everywhere. Firefighters stood near their gleaming trucks, hoses strung out along the streets and sidewalks. Ted Grant and Sir Edward Hall exited from a black Jaguar sedan. The car was parked diagonally across the road from the main entrance to the store. The building seemed to occupy an entire city block; its brown stones and gray trim rose eighteen stories into the gray sky. 

The tall and dark-haired Grant followed Hall in a fast loping walk toward a knot of uniformed officers and plainclothesmen who were standing on the farthest side of the street from Marchand's. 

He spotted a BBC television film crew, their sound trucks back behind the police and fire lines. 

Hall, slightly flushed, stopped at the center of the knot of police. Some of the men turned to him. A tall thin man with graying hair nodded, extending his hand. "Sir Edward, good to see you as always, sir." 

"A hearty second to that, Bill," Hall murmured. Then Hall turned to Grant, explaining, "Bill Thompkins is with the Home Office. Bill, this Ted Grant, former boxing champion who is here to teach the lads some self defense tricks." 

Ted Grant took Tompkins's outstretched hand. 

"Mr Grant, I understand we share a mutual friend -- Dr Charles McNider." 

"The crime writer?" 

Tompkins laughed. "The one and the same, sir." 

Grant looked up toward the higher floors of the department store. "What's the story here, if I may ask?" 

"Not very pretty, I'm afraid. Too many unknowns. Marchand's was running a heavily advertised sale in their ladies' foundations department. Could be any number of persons on the eighth floor ---" 

"Nine stories up, right?" Grant interrupted. 

"By American reckoning, yes," Hall answered for Tompkins. 

"We have evacuated all the floors above and below with the help of the fire-brigade chaps. But no telling how many are on the eighth floor. Anywhere from a dozen to hundred or more. All elevators and stairwells are blocked. Our lads are on the rooftop." Grant followed as Tompkins pointed out the positions of his men. "Every exit is blocked. Architectural plans for the building were on file in our offices, as they are for most edifices in the central business district." Tompkins smiled. "Been fighting these IRA bastards for quite some time. Like to be ready for them when they throw an unexpected soiree." 

"How many in the IRA team?" Hall interrupted. 

Tompkins turned around, tapping a tall thin policeman on the shoulder. The man saluted when he saw Hall. Tompkins said, "This is Carrington -- first man on the scene when Ethington went down. Carrington, tell Sir Edward and this gentleman what you told me." 

"Very well, sir," the young bobby began. "I reached Mr Ethington at approximately eleven forty-seven. A chest wound seemed the most serious of the various wounds about his body." 

More sirens were sounding; more police vans were pouring into the street from both directions. Ted Grant watched as their occupants spilled out. 

"What kind of weapon would you say was used, Mr Carrington?" Grant interrupted. 

"Automatic, I'd say from the pattern of the wounds. Looked to me like a small submachine gun, the kind that can be hidden under a coat. Close range, Ethington never had a chance, sir." 

"He gave you numbers?" Grant asked, trying to remain dispassionate. 

"Yes, sir. Five he saw, but there could have been more, sir. No mention of their arms. He recognized the leader, bloke named O'Malley. We've been wanting O'Malley for some time now." 

"What say we go into the building and attempt to contact the hostage-takers. That's what they're waiting for, I presume," Sir Edward Hall suggested. 

"How about if I go along? Maybe I can help." 

"That's irregular," Tompkins chimed in. 

"Yes. So irregular I don't have time to make a policy decision or consult with superiors." Hall smiled and turned to Grant. "Come if you wish. Perhaps you can help." 

Grant picked up his briefcase. "Ready when you are." 

Hall nodded, starting forward, with Tompkins on his left and Grant falling in on his right. Carrington, a sergeant, and the field commander for the Flying Squad, Harold Morgan, followed as the group entered the store. They stood next to the perfume counter, and Sir Edward Hall picked up the receiver of a telephone from a support-pillar-mounted cradle and began talking into it. 

"This is Sir Edward Hall, Assistant Superintendent, Metropolitan Police, Scotland Yard. I'm addressing the men on the eighth floor. If you hear me, contact me using the telephone located near the foundation garments' dressing room. Dial three one six two and you'll reach me," he added, reading the typed number affixed to the cradle. 

He hung up the phone. "We wait," he said, raising his eyebrows. 

The telephone rang. Hall picked it up. "Yes, Sir Edward Hall here." 

Ted Grant watched as Hall turned to Tompkins. "They have a list of demands." Tompkins nodded, taking out a pencil and notebook. Hall spoke into the receiver. "I'll be repeating what you say so it can be transcribed. Go ahead." 

Grant was becoming impatient. He clenched and unclenched his fists. Then unzippered his brown leather jacket, waiting. 

"All police are to move six blocks away from the store --" Hall looked at Tompkins. "A bus to take you, along with some of the hostages, to Heathrow, and an aircraft to fly you out of the country." Hall cleared his throat. "And if we don't, what then?" Hall blanched, then seemed to turn gray. "I see. No, no need to repeat that. Yes, I'm certain I've got it. Yes, I'll call back." Hall hung up. 

He took a gold watch out of his vest pocket and flicked open the case. He studied the watch for a moment, then snapped the case shut, placing the watch in his pocket. "They claim," he sighed heavily, "to have a bomb and eighty-two hostages -- women mostly, some children." He laughed. "They have a homosexual up there. He was trying to buy a brassiere -- for himself, apparently. At any rate, they claim they intend to detonate their bomb -- a large one, fifteen sticks of dynamite -- in exactly --" he looked at his watch again "-- nine minutes and fifteen seconds if we don't begin to comply. One of the children is in a wheelchair. A little girl, O'Malley told me. And it was O'Malley." 

Ted Grant felt his jaw setting, the tendons in his neck going tight. His voice strained as he asked, "This O'Malley -- you figure he'd --" 

"Detonate the bomb, killing eighty-two people, along with himself and his comrades?" Tompkins broke in. "Most assuredly." 

"He's just killed a bobby," Tompkins added. "He's wanted for any number of crimes and acts of violence. It would be the end for him if he were taken alive. He knows that." 

Grant sighed and picked up his briefcase. "I best leave you gentleman to do your job," he said. "This is really no place for a civilian such as myself. You're all professionals here. I'm just a former boxer." 

"I say, Ted. Your presence here is --" Hall started. 

Tompkins ignored the conversation and turned to some of his men. "I think we should only send three men up. He nodded toward Carrington, the sergeant and Commander Harold Morgan. 

Before he started to leave, Grant looked to the left at the architectural drawings for the store, which laid unrolled on the perfume counter. 

Tompkins said to the men, "There's a utilities shaft. You three men can go up the shaft to the eighth floor and hopefully surprise them. 

The men nodded. 

Ted Grant quietly slipped away. But instead of finding the exit from the store, he was able to make a quick turn down an aisle and found the Men's department on the first floor. From there, he went into a changing room and opened his briefcase. A very dark blue costume stared at him from inside the leather case. 

"It's been a long time," Grant said to himself. 

*** 

Wildcat makes his return in chapter 4. 

*** 

Come visit me and/or Chris Dee and the other fine writers at Gotham After Dark Message Board at: http://pub101.ezboard.com/bgothampm 


	4. Chapter 4

JSA: Atrocity 

By Bruce Wayne 

DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters portrayed in this story are copyright by DC Comics, an AOL/Time/Warner company. They are used without permission for entertainment without profit by the author. 

An Elseworld's story: Stories, situation or events involving familiar characters in unfamiliar settings. 

Chapter 4 

"They aren't moving out of the street yet," Coughlin, a ferret-face man, reported to O'Malley. The man turned back to the floor-level window that was located at the exact corner of the triangular-shaped floor area. O'Malley was smiling. 

"Didn't think they would now. That Sir Edward Hall -- a tough bastard. Got Tompkins with him, too. The BBC down there watching it all. Didn't think they'd be doin' it without a little proddin' now, hmm?" 

O'Malley ran both hands across his face, pushing back to lock of brown hair that hung over his right eye. "Ah, better now it is." He smiled, walking past the hostages. Some of the women were crying. One old woman had begged him not to make her kneel because her legs were stiff with arthritis. He made her kneel, anyway. 

Only one person didn't kneel -- the little girl in the wheelchair. She sat with her hands folded in the lap of her dress, looking up at him now. 

He looked away from her, walking the line of hostages again, stopping in front of the homosexual. O'Malley had made him strip and kneel. He was naked except for the brassiere he'd been trying to buy. "How's it goin, faggy?" 

The pale, thin-faced young man licked his lips. "I was going to a costume party. That's -- that's --" 

"Ah, and sure'n we know what kind of party it was, too, don't we now," O'Malley jeered, laughing. 

He walked on, stopping beside the little girl in the wheelchair again. "Darlin', you're so pretty. 'Tis a shame for you to spend your whole little life in that there chair, it is. But I might fix that now." The little girl gazed up at him, her smile uncertain. 

He looked at his four other men, then at Coughlin, beside the window, then at his wristwatch. Seven of the ten minutes were gone. 

"Coughlin, take the butt of your pistol and knock the lock offn' that there winder. Open up the winder real high." He looked to his other four men scattered beside the elevator bank, the stairwell and the fire escape. The one standing guard over the hostages was the one he selected. "Mick, be a good lad and help Coughlin. He's a mite skinny to work such a big winder now." O'Malley reached forward, placing his hands on the arms of the little girl's wheelchair. "Yes, darlin', tis a pity for you to live only half a life. Better no life at all." 

The woman beside the wheelchair, to O'Malley's right, started to scream. O'Malley's right hand curled around the pistol grip of his submachine gun that hung from under his tweed sport coat as he leaned forward. He shoved the muzzle against the woman's forehead. He spoke to the woman. "Your burdens -- they'll be lifted now, madam." The woman screamed again, reaching out for him with her hands, her nails bared. He smashed the pistol grip against her forehead, knocking her back. 

The little girl screamed, "Mommie!" 

He shoved the submachine gun against the tip of the little girl's nose. "Shh, darlin', hush now." He stood erect, watching the faces of the hostages. He liked the fear he saw there. He walked behind the wheelchair. His free hand grasped the left handle. He started to wheel the girl forward. As he passed the nearly naked young man, O'Malley heard someone move. He whirled as the homosexual attacked him, trying to wrestle the gun from him. 

O'Malley kicked the man in the crotch. The man uttered a scream and slumped back. O'Malley fired a short burst into the man's face. His body thrashed, then lay still. 

"Ya did have balls after all, boyo!" The IRA leader laughed, then pushed the wheelchair toward the open window, past the rest of the hostages, past the fifteen sticks of dynamite resting on a glass countertop. 

"Gotta show those nasty policemen outside," he told the little girl, "that we mean business, darlin'. Don't we now?" The little girl was crying. O'Malley liked the way the air smelled fresher the closer he pushed her toward the open window. 

*** 

Eight of the ten minutes given by the hostage-takers had elapsed. Wildcat passed the stenciled numeral indicating the seventh floor. Ahead he could see the cracks of light for the access door to the eighth floor. He hoped that no one outside the service shaft could hear the sounds of his movement. Behind him, he knew that three policemen would be coming very soon. 

Then Wildcat heard Sir Edward Hall on the loudspeaker system, urging the criminals to surrender. From his position in the shaft, the echoing words were hard to follow, but Wildcat realized that Sir Edward was only trying to cover any telltale sounds that the would-be rescuers would make in reaching the eighth floor. 

Wildcat stopped climbing the ladder. His hands were sweating inside the dark blue skintight suit that covered his entire body except for the lower portion of his face. 

He looked down. Morgan and the two men were behind him. Wildcat hoped that they would not shoot him thinking he was one of the hostage-takers. 

Wildcat shuffled forward with his left hand as he clung to the rungs of the ladder with his right. The noise of Sir Edward's speech over the PA system stopped abruptly. 

With both hands grasping an overhead rung, Wildcat swung back, then thrust himself forward. His feet came to rest noiselessly against the access doorframe. 

Wildcat nodded to Harold Morgan, who was quite surprised to see a man in a dark costume inside the shaft. Wildcat merely saluted slowly with two fingers to the Flying Squad commander, indicating he was a friendly. 

Morgan, knowing he had no time to question this dilemma he was faced with, decided to go along with the costumed character, praying he knew what he was doing. There was no time for conversation. 

Wildcat twisted the handle of the access door, swinging the door slightly open. 

In the semidarkness of the shaft, there was a pale wash of yellow light now from the opening in the access doorway. Morgan could see Wildcat raise one finger. Morgan understood -- one suspect visible from the door. 

Crouching, Wildcat pushed gently on the door. He went through the doorway. Wildcat heard a faint rustle as Morgan started to follow him. He squinted against the sudden brightness of the floor's lights. 

The man Wildcat had indicated was now beside the drinking fountain near the elevator bank, his head turned away from the access shaft. 

Morgan started to reach for the silenced handgun that he wore in a shoulder holster. 

Wildcat stayed Morgan's hand, shaking his head. 

The costumed hero held up his hand, indicating to Morgan to wait. Wildcat started forward in a long-strided crouch. He had covered half the distance to the man beside the drinking fountain when he heard a woman scream. Wildcat froze. 

Then an Irish-accented male voice said, "The darlin' girl won't feel much of a thing. Her legs are paralyzed, anyway, now aren't they?" 

Wildcat saw the guard tense. 

"Damn," Wildcat rasped under his breath, taking off in a silent run toward the guard. The man seemed to sense something. He glanced over his right shoulder, then turned. Wildcat's right hand flashed forward. His gloved left hand clamped over the guard's mouth and nose while the right punched into the man's right kidney. Wildcat then wrapped his heavily-muscled arm around the man's neck, cutting off the bloodflow to the brain. Within seconds, the man slumped in Wildcat's arms. Wildcat gently lowered the unconscious suspect to the floor. Morgan took the man's gun and secured it. 

Morgan now knew that even though the man was wearing an odd costume that seemed to resemble a dark cat of some sort, he was working with a professional. 

Wildcat flattened himself in a corner against the wall. 

The Irish voice began again -- Wildcat was certain it was O'Malley. "And what's the matter with you, Terrence? No stomach to watch a pretty little girl go for a flight in the air?" 

Wildcat wondered if the unconscious guard was Terrence. 

The American vigilante heard the sound of a whimper, then the woman screamed again, "Don't push my baby out the window!" 

"For the good of the cause, madam. For the good of the cause, it is!" 

Wildcat got ready to move. The masked hero looked at Morgan and nodded once. 

"Now!" Wildcat shouted as he hurled himself around the corner, dashing past the elevator bank. The scene that appeared before him seemed surreal. 

A man with brown hair was standing beside an open window. The widowsill was at floor level. A young girl sat in a wheelchair covering her eyes with her hands. The man was about to push the wheelchair out the window. 

Wildcat shouted, "O'Malley, no!" 

A red-haired man was turning toward him, raising his submachine gun to fire. Wildcat executed a flying drop-kick into the man's body, hurling the criminal back against an eight-foot-high glass display cabinet. The body smashed into the glass, shattering it. Headless mannequin torsos wearing bras and girdles tumbled around the man. 

Wildcat got up quickly and blocked the blow from a ferret-faced man, who was standing beside O'Malley and the little girl. The American hero then threw a left hook into the man's face, sending him sprawling to the floor. 

O'Malley thrust the wheelchair forward out the window. Wildcat saw the chair and its occupant hang there for an instant. They they disappeared. The girl's shriek was lost in the pandemonium. The gang leader began to turn, bringing up a submachine gun. 

To his right, Wildcat saw the ferret-faced man incredibly get up from a blow from a former heavyweight boxing champion and lurch toward an electrical detonator near a taped pile of dynamite sticks. 

Harold Morgan jabbed the muzzle of his gun against the man's body. Blood and flesh exploded in a crimson mist as he pulled the trigger. The man's body fell toward him. There was no choice in the matter, the man had to be killed. 

Wildcat dove out of the way as O'Malley's subgun began to chatter. With his right hand, he drew out one of the stainless-steel _shuriken throwing spikes from the back of his glove. He drew back his right arm, then flicked the wrist forward, hurling the __shuriken toward O'Malley. _

O'Malley's body spun as his left hand reached up, tugging at the spike embedded in his chest. His subgun sprayed harmlessly into the floor. Wildcat's right hand found the side of O'Malley's head. It was followed by a left hook across the face. O'Malley's body twitched each time. Wildcat followed up with two more blows. 

O'Malley weaved, refusing to go down. The subgun still rose. Wildcat moved toward O'Malley, then planted his right foot as he halfed wheeled. His left leg snapped up and out, impacting on O'Malley's throat. 

"Damn you, boyo!" O'Malley croaked. His body tumbled backward and his head and shoulders grazed the wooden window frame. O'Malley's body then flew through the window as the subgun fired into the ceiling. 

Chunks of plaster rained down on Wildcat. The gunfire around him stopped. 

Wildcat looked behind him once. Morgan stood there, a gun in his hand. The other two Flying Squad men were there, too. No was wounded. Some of the women and children were crying. 

The IRA men and the homosexual lay dead on the floor. 

Then Wildcat heard it -- a small voice coming from outside the window. "Help me, please ..." 

Wildcat raced to the window and leaned out over the floor-level sill. 

There were knots of men on the street standing around what looked like a twisted mass of wheels and tubing. Others stood around something that might have been a body. 

Firemen were running out with a net. 

Wildcat looked slightly to his right. 

Halfway down the floor below dangled the little girl, part of her dress caught on the point of a flagpole. Her hands were grasping a ripping Union Jack. 

"Good God," Wildcat rasped. He looked behind him. Trying hard to put an English accent in his voice, Wildcat said to Morgan, "Quick, man, I need some rope or belts. Hurry!" 

The policemen quickly looked around and decided they weren't likely to find rope in the woman's foundations department of the store. They began taking their belts off. 

Wildcat took the belts and hooked them through the buckles to secure two of them into a loop and attached the third one to them. 

Giving the free end to Morgan, the costumed man said, "Hold this. Don't let go, or you'll lose us both." Wildcat slipped the sling over his head and shoulders, settling it under his armpits. 

Morgan wrapped the tongue of the belt around his fist. "This won't hold you, sir!" 

"Damn well better," Wildcat snapped, stepping out onto the ledge. 

"Hurry up, please!" whimpered the little girl. 

Wildcat looked down at her and wished he had a utility belt like Batman. This type of rescue would be a piece of cake for him, Wildcat thought. 

The hero dressed in a dark, cowled cat suit said, "Hold on, dear. You'll be fine. Just hold that flag and don't move!" 

Wildcat looked back to see Morgan out on the ledge behind him. Morgan's right hand was locked into a clamp for the window washer. 

"Now if you don't like costumed heroes in your city," Wildcat began, placing his knees at the edge of the twelve-inch wide ledge, "letting go of that belt isn't the way to tell me about it." Wildcat eased his hands to the ledge, letting down one knee, then the other. His right foot rested on the base of the flagpole when he extended the toe of his boot. 

Wildcat lowered himself slowly. All that held him now were Morgan and the belts. The hero straddled the flagpole. He could feel the pole pressing into his testicles. He glanced up to Morgan. "Test this for me. Let out some slack on your end of the harness -- just a little." He felt the easing tension where the sling bound against his armpits, then felt the polce sag slightly, but it held. "Now I'm going out to get her. Hang in there, officer," Wildcat shouted over the police sirens below. 

The costumed man stretched forward, and his gloved hands eased across the length of the flagpole. At his longest reach the little girl was still more than two feet away. He leaned his weight out to full extension along the pole as his knees gripped it tightly. The pole sagged more under him. 

Moving is knees millimeters at a time, he edged forward. The little girl was crying for her mother. 

He inched forward slowly again, feeling the pole bending some more under their combined weight. 

Once more he reached out. Then he had her. He gripped her left hand. 

"Gotcha, sweetheart!" he shouted at her. 

He tried pulling her up, but the dress was still caught in the point of the flagpole. The pole that had saved her life now endangered it. The flagpole swayed and creaked as the wind gusted. 

"Hell," Wildcat rasped. 

The little girl's eyes widened as she looked at the oddly dressed man. She said, crying, "Mommie told me that's a bad word." 

"Mommie's right." He nodded, trying to distract the girl from her predicament. 

"Why are you wearing that funny suit," she asked. 

He smiled. "What funny suit? Haven't you ever seen a man in a cat costume before? I bet you like cats." 

Breathless, Wildcat thought desperately of a way to unsnag her dress. Then he had it. He reached his free hand down, pulling another _shuriken spike from the back of the left glove. The __shuriken was identical to the one he'd thrown into O'Malley's chest. _

He stabbed the point of the spike into the fabric of the dress, punching the tiny blade through half its length, ripping the material. He tugged harder. The material around the collar was stronger -- but it ripped, too. Wildcat freed the girl, feeling her full weight -- fifty or sixty pounds, he judged -- in his right hand. 

He tossed the _shuriken back toward the building, hoping it didn't land on anyone below. _

Wildcat looked at the little girl. His right hand clung to what was left of her dress, and his fingers were knotted into her hair. "This'll hurt, sweetheart, but I have to do it." 

The little girl screamed as he pulled her up. 

Wildcat shifted his body weight so he wouldn't slip off the pole. "Now," he gasped, swallowing hard, "get on my back. Knot your fingers into my suit in front and hug my neck. Can you do that?" 

She was already doing it. Wildcat could feel her weight on him. He also felt her hands around his neck, tugging at the front of his costume. He started to edge his body back along the flagpole's length. He kept moving. The flagpole creaked under their weight now. 

"Keep coming!" It was Morgan's voice. 

Wildcat nodded, licking his dry lips, edging back farther. His hands were damp in the gloves. 

Then his right foot felt something hard. He twisted slightly, almost losing his balance. His fingers locked tighter onto the flagpole. His right foot was against the side of the building. 

He kept moving backward, and his left foot made contact now. 

"Officer, holiday's over. Start pulling when I say go!" 

"Yes, sir!" 

His hands pushed against the flagpole. His feet were planted against the building. 

"Now all you got," and he pushed his arms out to maximum extension. The belts hurt as the tension increased across his chest. He reached his arms behind him when they could no longer do him any good, getting the girl tighter against him as he leaned back. 

"Grab the little girl," he gasped, standing now, extending his right hand up to the ledge. He looked behind him and saw Morgan taking her up. The belt stayed taut. 

He reached across his body with his left hand to touch the ledge. 

"Got her, sir, inside and safe." 

Wildcat said nothing, just let Morgan haul him up. He pushed with his feet, sprawling half across the ledge. Morgan's hands were on him, helping to untie the belts. Then Wildcat half crawled through the smashed window into the foundations department. 

He sat back on a small chair one of the hostages moved out for him. "Thanks, madam," he said as he watched the little girl being cuddled in her arms. 

Another older woman came up to the costumed man and asked simply, "Who are you?" 

"They call me Wildcat," he replied. 

The woman smiled and told him, "I call you a hero." 

*** 

Rex Tyler (Hourman) shows up in chapter 5. 

*** 

Come visit me and/or Chris Dee and the other fine writers at Gotham After Dark Message Board at: http://pub101.ezboard.com/bgothampm 


	5. Chapter 5

JSA: Atrocity 

By Bruce Wayne 

DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters portrayed in this story are copyright by DC Comics, an AOL/Time/Warner company. They are used without permission for entertainment without profit by the author. 

An Elseworld's story: Stories, situation or events involving familiar characters in unfamiliar settings. 

Chapter 5 

Rex Tyler leaned back in the truck cab and tried to close his eyes. Just then the truck hit a bump and the rig bounced. "Hell, Lee, I'm trying to sleep." 

"Sorry, Mr Tyler, just relax." 

"I'm trying to relax, Lee. Just stop hitting every damn pothole in the road." 

"Whole road's a pothole, Mr Tyler," Lee tried to explain. 

Rex cocked back the peak of his black porkpie hat, then turned to look at Lee Munday. He didn't say anything but kept watching Lee, who looked as if he wanted to talk. Rex shrugged and stared at the windshield wipers moving back and forth. 

"This damned rain," Lee remarked. 

Rex still watched the windshield wipers. 

"When I agreed to drive this chemical shipment I never figured it'd be like this." 

Rex closed his eyes. "I figured it'd be like this," Rex answered without being asked. 

"Why does the owner of a chemical company need to personally deliever a shipment, Mr Tyler?" 

"I want to make sure it gets where it has to safe and sound." 

"But you're the boss, Mr Tyler! You have little pipsqueaks like me do the dirty work." 

Rex thought about that for a moment, then pulled his hat down over his eyes. "Yes, but this is a very dangerous cargo. I don't like to ask people to do something that I wouldn't do myself. Besides, I like to travel, see the country. Good a way as any." 

"Good a way as any," Lee repeated, snorting. 

Lightning flashed across the narrow two-lane blacktop, illuminating everything on the other side of the windshield for a moment. 

"See, you and me, we're different," Lee continued. "I've been doing this driving for you for three years now. You're an important man." 

"So what?" 

"Believe me, Mr Tyler, you get tired driving along in a truck." Lee jabbed his thumb in the semidarkness toward the rear of the cab. 

Rex turned his attention from the windshield wipers to the road ahead of them. More lightning ripped across the sky. 

"Hauling dangerous chemicals and poison gas, Lee. It's important work to get it to its destination safely," Rex said. 

"This isn't dangerous, is it, Mr Tyler?" 

"What do you call VX nerve gas?" Rex asked him. 

"Oh, yeah. I mean it is a poison gas, but the stuff is safe in their containers." 

"We're just hauling twenty-five 55-gallon drums of the material, Lee. There's three other trucks doing the same thing. Who knows what could happen? What if a lightning bolt hits the truck?" 

Rex watched the way Lee was looking at him instead of the road. "What if you drive this rig off the side of the road and we go over the cliff there. Wise up, Lee. Relax, huh?" 

Lee was always like this. He was dependable, but a _Nervous Nelly. He kept talking so that Rex couldn't sleep. _

"Hell," Rex snarled, trying to roll over. He smiled at remembering what it was like to be The Man of the Hour or Hourman. He didn't have to put up so much with the Lee's of the world. But he wanted to make sure this shipment got to its destination at a U.S. Army facility intact. That's why he personally was along for the ride to insure that happened. Tyler Chemicals had won the contract to manufacture the nerve gas for the U.S. government and by golly he was going to make sure nothing happened to it along the way. 

They were hauling the nerve agent known as VX. It was several times more toxic than sarin but less volatile. It could kill a man within minutes if inhaled or deposited on the skin. Protection from VX would require both protective suits and masks. The compound was first prepared in the 1950s during research for new insecticides. Its chemical formula is classified by the U.S. government as secret. But Rex knew what the formula was now. It was really nasty stuff. 

If the nerve gas were to fall into the wrong hands -- it was too horrible of a thing to even consider. 

What some evil person could do with twenty-five 55-gallon drums of VX he and Lee were hauling -- or the seventy-five others that three other rigs were hauling -- was just terrifying to think about. 

"Dammit," he said, and sat up. He couldn't sleep. 

*** 

Rex was at the wheel. The truck was stopped. Rain was pelting down now with such force he could see the raindrops bounce off the Mack's hood. Between the moving windshield wipers he watched two disguised Military Policemen who drove the pilot car in front of them. 

The owner of Tyler Chemicals had eaten three hamburgers at the truck stop and drunk more coffee than he knew was good for him. The rain was still pouring down. He stared out the window. They'd be moving soon, when the MP's were all situated and ready to lead them once again. 

Rex's mind drifted back to the cargo they were carrying. Nerve gases were pretty nasty stuff. They were first developed by Germany during World War II but were not used at that time. The gases could cause death by asphyxiation, often preceded by such symptoms as blurred vision, excessive salivation, and convulsions. Physiologically, the toxic effect of nerve gases arose because they inactivate the enzyme cholinesterase, which normally controls the transmission of nerve impulses. The impulses continue without control, causing breakdown of respiration and other body functions. 

"Twenty-five drums," Rex murmured. Twenty-five drums that if used in the prescribed manner could probably take out all of New York City and then some. 

He shrugged. He wiggled his toes in his boots, staring at the toes for a moment. Then he straightened himself. He was beginning to think that Lee was right -- this really wasn't something for a company owner to be doing. 

*** 

The Boomer sat staring down at the open shackles between his legs, tossing the keys in the air, then catching them again. He was listening to False-Face whistling a tune. The pleasant sounds came from the open bathroom door. The Boomer wondered what False-Face really looked like but supposed he was better off not knowing. 

"F.F.?" 

"Yes?" the voice called back. 

"Why do you need me? There are others who can plant bombs. You do it well. I should know --" he laughed "-- I taught you." 

They were in a small house located in a rural area of Hamburg. The house was evidently lived in -- there wasn't so much as a speck of dust on the coffee table beside which he sat. He turned his attention now from the shackles to the fireplace. A fire had been burning when they arrived. The sedan they had driven had been abandoned on a side road four miles or so back and the two dead policemen rolled out into a ditch. 

The Boomer looked toward the bathroom as he heard footsteps. "F.F.?" 

The figure that greeted him now was not that of Durkey, the British police inspector, but rather an attractive, dark-haired woman dressed as an airline stewardess. Other than the height -- and the three-inch heels helped that -- the disguise was perfect ... feminine, beautiful. "What's this?" 

"Call it an economical way of traveling without my luggage being searched." 

The voice changed, rising half an octave but not sounding at all strained or faked. The Boomer felt embarrassed thinking it, but the voice sounded like that of his deceased mother. 

"Coffee, tea, or --" Then the voice changed back. False-Face laughed. He walked across the room and sat at the far end of the couch, his skirt pulled demurely over his knees. He brushed an auburn curl back from his forehead. As he talked, he opened the purse that was on his lap. The combination of masculine voice and feminine appearance was almost too much for Boomer to concentrate on what False-Face was saying. 

"My dear Boomer, you are a specialist. You are terrible at assassinations, clumsy with a knife. That policeman you killed just before you were captured -- how awkward. You are worse with a gun." False-Face touched up his lipstick in a compact mirror. "But you are a genius with explosives and chemicals. And I will give you the ultimate challenge. When you get to America, of course." 

"I do not understand. I have never been to America." 

"A beautiful country. The people are ridculously friendly and trusting, the scenery in some places more beautiful than one can imagine. And anyway, our explosives and chemicals are there." 

"What kind of explosives and chemicals?" 

False-Face ignored the question, closing his purse. He stood up, smoothing the skirt down along his thighs as he walked to the bar. 

The Boomer noticed his hands -- the nails were long and painted pink. 

"Do you go to the movies?" 

"Yes, I like the movies, F.F." 

"I studied long and hard to be an actor. I played in some films. In one I played a henchman to a supervillian fighting a super-hero -- can you imagine?" 

"Yes," Boomer replied. 

False-Face frowned as he poured himself a glass of sparkling wine. "A drink, Boomer?" 

"No, not now." 

"Champagne goes with the role I play," False-Face explained, sipping at the wine. "In America, by the way, they use flat glasses for champagne -- boorish." 

The Boomer watched him, just then noticing the proper champagne glass -- tulip shaped -- that False-Face drank his wine from. "But --" 

"I need you to help me reverse that supervillian image, Boomer. The villian always wants to dominate the world for some sinister purpose." False-Face walked around the bar, easing himself up onto a bar stool, crossing his shaven legs. 

The legs were good looking, Boomer thought. 

"One could say I'm a villian. At least by conventional standards I certainly am. And I do plan to dominate the world." False-Face stirred him champagne until it fizzled, using his left index finger. He sucked the champagne from his finger. 

"Stop it, F.F.!" 

False-Face laughed, sliding down from the bar stool. "Old friend, to play a role one must live a role." 

"I do not understand this world domination, this --" 

"You will help me -- so that I may actually irrevocably rule the world, create the new order we both serve. That's all I can say for now. Will you help me, Boomer, as only you can?" 

The Boomer studied False-Face's eyes. They were icy blue. They were a little insane, too, he thought. But he nodded. "Yes, yes, F.F. I will help you -- in this thing, in all things." 

The graceful right hand reached out to him. The champagne glass was set down. 

The Boomer took the hand. The grip was more powerful than a vise. 

"Good," False-Face said in his own voice. Then in his feminine voice he whispered, "Such a dear man you are, Boomer." And he laughed. 

*** 

Dr Charles McNider comes in contact with False-Face. McNider and Diana Prince try to convince Ted Grant to help reform the JSA in chapter 6 

*** 

Come visit me and/or Chris Dee and the other fine writers at Gotham After Dark Message Board at: http://pub101.ezboard.com/bgothampm 


	6. Chapter 6

JSA: Atrocity 

By Bruce Wayne 

DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters portrayed in this story are copyright by DC Comics, an AOL/Time/Warner company. They are used without permission for entertainment without profit by the author. 

An Elseworld's story: Stories, situation or events involving familiar characters in unfamiliar settings. 

Chapter 6 

Doctor Charles McNider was having difficulty adjusting his lap belt. The auburn-haired, blue-eyed stewardess leaned down as she passed him. 

"May I help you with that, Dr McNider?" 

"Yes. Yes, you may," he said, smiling up at the voice. 

The woman brushed back a lock of hair with a pink manicured fingernail and returned the smile. "Let me help you," she offered again. 

"You're a lovely woman, I can tell by the sound of your voice," McNider, who was legally blind, told her, feeling rather silly saying this, but powerless not to. 

She smiled. Through the lenses of the special dark glasses he wore, he saw it was a warm pretty smile, inviting. "Thank you very much, sir." Then she reached down and gave a final tug to his lap belt. 

"What's your name?" He'd never asked a stewardess her name before. 

"Johanna, sir. Are you comfortable now? We'll be landing shortly at Heathrow according to the captain." 

"Yes, very comfortable, Johanna." He smiled toward the sound of her voice. 

They were still approaching Heathrow Airport in the Boeing 707 airliner. Johanna came back and sat in the empty seat beside him. "I understand you're a crime writer," she said, looking at the glasses that covered his eyes. He could feel her piercing gaze. "It sounds like an interesting profession." 

"I imagine men must say that to you constantly -- as a stewardess." 

She smiled, nodding only slightly, still looking at him. 

"It's really rather a dull job, I confess. I just write detective stories for people's amusement." 

She only smiled. 

"But what do you do, then?" she asked. 

"Before I write my stories, I do some research of the locales that I base my stories on. On this trip, I was studying Hamburg for an upcoming story." 

"But what do you do?" she repeated. 

"Well, I try to write exciting fictionalized accounts of detective work. And on occassion I will write editorials about organized crime and the effort -- and in most cases -- non-effort that is done to combat it. I often visit various police agencies, such as Interpol, Scotland Yard, the Surete, the FBI." 

"Have you met the American -- oh, what's his name? Hoover? J Edgar Hoover? The American police chief?" 

"He'd probably cringe at your description of being called a police chief," he laughed, feeling happy, expansive. If there hadn't been the dinner appointment with Diana Prince and Ted Grant, he would have dared ask her out. But he wondered if he would have. "All I do is gather together some information on criminals." 

But you are ... are ... impaired. Your eyesight --?" 

The blonde-haired man smiled and tapped his head with his forefinger. "I keep it all up here." 

"I imagine you write about murderers. I shudder at the thought of people doing such horrible things. I guess it makes me afraid." She smiled, looking at him. 

He licked his lips. "I, er, Johanna. Do you, I mean, well, perhaps I shouldn't ask or mention this -- no, I shouldn't." 

"I can't tonight, Charles." 

"Well, actually, I can't either. But I suppose it's always the same for you ... I mean, suitors hovering about and all ... a girl like you." 

She seemed to laugh -- perhaps a private joke, but he never thought she was laughing at him. "Some other time," she said, looking down at her hands folded in the lap of her skirt. 

He licked his lips again. "Yes, I'd like that very much, Johanna." 

"Do you have a card? I could give you my phone number." 

But, alas, my dear, a number on a card would do me no good." 

She clasped her hand to her mouth. "Oh, I am so sorry! Forgive me. I --" 

"No apology necessary, my dear," he said. "In fact, I'm flattered that you forgot. Just tell me your number and I'll remember it. How could I forget such a charming young woman, such as yourself?" 

She told him the number and then said, "It's just an answering service. I share it with some of the other girls." 

He produced a card and handed it to her. 

"My number, if you, er, ever need ..." 

Her left hand reached out, rested for the briefest instant over his right, and then she stood. "I won't forget," she promised as she edged past him. 

He felt silly for saying it. "Neither will I." Unbeknownst to her, he watched her walk down the aisle away from him. 

*** 

"Ted, how often is it that I talk with you?" 

"About once every two months or so." 

"How many times have I bought you dinner only to have you refuse to consider helping us put the _old team back together?" _

"Counting this time?" Ted Grant smiled, sipping at his glass of ice water. "This makes eight times." 

"Dammit, Ted, the world _needs the __team back together again. Just look at that affair yesterday at Marchand's." _

"You make it up into the foundations department much, Charles?" 

"Don't attempt to be humorous, Ted. We're really serious," Diana Prince interrupted. 

Dr Charles McNider watched him smile. Ted's blue eyes were laughing. 

"I'm not really trying to be funny, Diana. I'm really flattered that you would want me back on the _old team. But I'm not interested." He set down his glass. "Now you can wine me and dine me in another sixty days or so -- I'll never pass up a free meal -- but the answer'll be the same, Charles." _

"But _we need you, Ted!" McNider pleaded. "You abilities are needed in the fight." _

"Bullshit," Ted told him calmly. Then he looked to Diana. "Pardon my French, Diana." 

Her look was enough to scold him. 

McNider wasn't giving up easily. "Look, for about ten years we all teamed up and dealt with _very serious problems." He lowered his voice. "How many _

times did we save the world from disaster? From supervillians? From would-be world dominators?" 

"We did indeed do that, old friend," Grant replied. "I'm not denying that for one minute." 

"Quite. We need someone who knows how to fight." McNider looked to Diana for an instant. "Ted, Diana and I agree you were the soul of the team. You were instrumental in keeping us together to work as a team." 

"That was before the government succeeded in breaking us up back in '51," Ted replied. "Good God, Charles, don't you remember how humiliating that was to be summoned before the House Committee on Un-American affairs?" 

McNider shot back quickly, "Those were the days of McCarthyism. Nothing was sacred and they implied _we had ties to foreign agencies with interests contrary to those of the United States." _

"A total fabrication," Diana piped up. 

"Yes," continued McNider, "But accordingly, the Committee demanded that the _team surrender our true identities and submit to an interrogation in order to maintain our status as a legitimate legal organization." _

"Charles? Remember?" Grant interrupted. "I was there. I found the whole thing disgusting. It's why I got out of the hero business." 

"Good God, there's no man as skilled with his fists as you are," the doctor said. "You know how to track down criminals." 

"Got boring," Grant said. 

"This wouldn't be boring," Diana said, leaning back in her chair. 

"I'm sure it wouldn't," Ted agreed. "But I'm not bored with what I do now. I travel all over the world teaching self-defense. I have my own gym in Queens. I make a good living. I've got a little bungalow -- on time with the mortgage payments and everything. What's wrong with the life I live?" 

"What's wrong with doing the same thing you did yesterday, but with us?" McNider asked. 

Ted Grant smiled. "You mean play fisticuffs with criminals?" 

"Yes, not just trade fisticuffs, but tracking them down," Diana replied. 

"I get involved in the fighting end of things very little these days. You know that, Diana." 

McNider was still pleading but in low tones so that he couldn't be overheard in the restaurant. "We need you -- as Wildcat. You're the heart of the _old team." _

Grant laughed. "Charles? You've been reading too many of those thriller novels you write, watching too many movies." 

Diana sat bolt upright, took a swallow of her water, then said, "You know my position with military intelligence? We are now seeing assessments in regards to terrifying weapons that can wipe out entire populations in the blink of an eye. Atomic and hydrogen bombs. There is chemical weapons, like Mustard Gas. There is even a report that they might resort to using manmade diseases as weapons, like the bubonic plague or something. Ted, sooner or later some evil forces will attempt to join together and acquire these horrific weapons to use against innocent people. And what is there to oppose them? Cooperating police departments? There is Interpol, which isn't an enforcement agency at all, as you know. There are various intelligence organizations, but they never tell all they know. The world needs the JSA to protect it from the evildoers who might do it harm." 

Ted Grant considered Diana Prince's words very carefully. When she explained it in that manner, he thought, she was right. 

Grant let out a sigh and then asked, "Who all else is in, so far?" 

McNider's face lit up. "We have Bruce in Gotham ..." 

"And that _terrific gentleman, Terry, in Gateway City," Diana Chimed in with a cyptic identification. _

"Rex is in and so is Carter and Shiera," the doctor added. 

"The _sleepy one, Wesley," Diana said. "Of Course, our __little friend, Al, would never want to be left out." _

"And ..." There was a long pause from McNider as he hesitated to mention the last name. 

"And who?" prodded Grant. 

"Our friend, the police detective, from Gateway City. He used to be from New York," Charles explained. 

Ted Grant laughed. "Him? You got him? You got ol' spooky to go along with this?" 

Diana Prince smiled. "Yes. He seemed most eager to combine forces. If there is anything he despises -- it's evil." 

"What about the others? What about Alan and Jay? And how about Dinah?" Ted asked. 

"We haven't been able to get around to everybody yet, Ted." McNider said. "But we will in due time. But we really wanted to get you on board. With you back, I'm sure everyone will agree." 

"I haven't said I was _in, yet." _

"Ted?!" Diana exclaimed in a disappointed tone. 

Ted Grant smiled and took Diana's hand in his and kissed it. "How could I ever say no to you, such a _wonderful woman?" _

Diana beamed at him. McNider's face also had a big smile. 

"Great! We're just about ready for anything now," McNider said. 

*** 

Bruce Wayne stood under the steaming hot shower. His hands were lathering soap over his body. 

Crime was starting to get out of control, and that was obvious to anyone, Bruce realized. Not just in Gotham City, but everywhere. 

He had received a coded telegram from Diana Prince informing him that eighty-odd people who had been hostages at Marchand's department store in London had been saved by Wildcat and Wildcat was now on board as a returning member of the Justice Society of America. 

The goal of the JSA was to stop evildoers -- as many and as often as possible. Save lives and vast sums of money. 

Bruce set the soap down. He let the hard spray pelt his body. Then he turned the water straight cold. 

After getting out of the shower and drying himself, he looked at the clock. It was almost 5:30 A.M. He had just gotten in from being out on patrol and had collected some clues regarding The Penguin's latest scheme. 

The JSA was getting back together again. Bruce thought the time was right because something in his gut told him -- they were all going to be needed sometime in the near future. Crime had finished it's holiday during the 50's. The 1960's, he predicted, were going to be a troubling time. 

*** 

The Boomer heads for America. Rex Tyler continues on his journey. We meet The Sprectre, Hawkman, and The Atom as they work on a case in chapter 7. 

*** 

Come visit me and/or Chris Dee and the other fine writers at Gotham After Dark Message Board at: http://pub101.ezboard.com/bgothampm 


	7. Chapter 7

JSA: Atrocity 

By Bruce Wayne 

DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters portrayed in this story are copyright by DC Comics, an AOL/Time/Warner company. They are used without permission for entertainment without profit by the author. 

An Elseworld's story: Stories, situation or events involving familiar characters in unfamiliar settings. 

Chapter 7 

The car had stopped. Its ignition was off. He was getting to detest cars. It would feel good to blow up some again. 

He heard the crunching footsteps on the gravel as he squinted at the darkness rimming the glare of the yellow headlights. He turned to the driver beside him. "Get out here?" 

"Yes, here," said the dark mustached little man, nodding in the semidarkness. The only illumination in the car was the greenish glow from the gauges on the Volvo's dashboard. 

"Here," Boomer said, then worked the door handle, opening it, stepping out. 

Someone spoke from the far edge of the lights. A body was partially visible. Hands held a submachine gun. "Welcome to Ankara, Herr Boomer," the voice said in English, the Turkish accent thick. 

"A little bird told me cuckoo," Boomer said lifelessly. 

"But only on the hour," the voice came back. 

The Boomer hated passwords -- they were always stupid sounding. "Why does a Gray Wolf carry a submachine gun?" 

"It works well," came back the voice in an amused tone from beyond the headlights. Then the body stepped fully into the glare, sporting the weapon hanging from its sling. The man lit a cigarette with a match that made a whooshing sound as it flared. The acrid smell of phosphorous stung Boomer's nostrils. 

"It does, I guess. Where to from here?" Boomer queried. 

"Two hours from now, a plane will fly you to Madrid with two stopovers. I have your travel papers. They aren't that good, but they will get you to Madrid. In Madrid, you will be given new papers. They will be very good. Then to America. I don't know what your name will be, Herr Boomer." 

"So as long as they don't make me sound like a comic book villian." 

The Turk said nothing, only smoked his cigarette. 

*** 

In Gateway City, located on the West Coast of the United States, the police department received an urgent call from the First National Bank. Detectives Jim Corrigan and Wayne Hayes were excitedly greeted by the bank's manager. 

At the entrance of the executive office of the bank, Corrigan asked the manager, "What's the trouble." 

"Come into my office," the manager replied. 

Within moments of entering the office, the bank manager pointed to another man and demanded, "Arrest this man! Even though he's been a clerk for us for the past ten years, he's been embezzling funds!" 

The man looked as though he was shocked, regaining his composure, he declared to the detectives, "But it's not true, I tell you!" 

Corrigan was taken back for moment as he tried to grasp on what was occurring in the bank. A sudden feeling came to him from a man sitting at another desk in the office. The detective walked over to the man and the feeling was even stronger. 

Detective Corrigan asked the bespectacled man who was working on some paperwork, "And who are _you?" _

The man acted nervous, not expecting he would have to identify himself. "I'm Simmons, an accountant." 

Simmons' mind began to race as he commanded himself, "_Don't show any signs of nervousness. He can't possibly guess I'm guilty!" _

But unfortunately for Simmons, Jim Corrigan possessed the ability to read minds. Corrigan quickly reached into the man's inner suit coat pocket and pulled out a legal-looking paper. 

Corrigan examined the contents of the paper rapidly. Looking at the man, he said, "A $10,000 bond! Quite a luxury for an accountant!' 

The man attempted to grab the paper away from Corrigan's hand. "Give me that!" he demanded. 

Corrigan looked to the others in the room and pointed to the bank accountant. The police detective said, "There's the real criminal!" 

The bank manager was dumbfounded by this revelation. "Simmons? Incredible!" he said. 

The outraged accountant started to reach for something inside his right-hand suit coat pocket as he said, "Keep your hands up!" In his hands was a small pistol. "I'm clearing out of here and none of you try to stop me!" 

Keeping the gun trained on the four men in the room, Simmons began to back toward the room's exit. Invisible to the others, the figure of The Spectre emerged from Jim Corrigan's body. 

With his back almost to the door, Simmons told the four men, "Keep back!" 

Reaching behind him, the accountant turned the doorknob and opened the door. He turned to leave but stopped dead in his tracks at the frightening sight that stood before him. "Huh?" escaped from his lips. 

In a deep, dark voice, The Spectre asked the man, "Not thinking of leaving, are you?" 

Scared out of his wits, the eyes behind Simmons' glasses were wide with terror as he asked the tall figure who wore a green hood and cape with green trunks and boots over dead white tights, "Wh--who in blazes are _you?" _

The Spectre replied, "Someone who intends to see to it that you don't thwart justice." 

The Spectre's figure and voice were apparent only to Simmons. Corrigan, of course, knew The Spectre was responsible for the man's strange behavior. But the other three men -- the bank manager, the wrongly accused embezzler and Detective Hayes -- did not see or hear what the accountant was responding to. 

Corrigan played up the charade of not knowing what was happening. He said to the others, "He's talking to himself!" 

"The man's _mad!" observed Hayes. _

The men in the room watched as the terrorized Simmons pointed the gun and pulled the trigger three times toward seemingly nothing at the door. 

"I know the gun's loaded --" he said to The Spectre, "-- But the bullets aren't coming out!" 

The deep voice replied, "Because I willed it so." 

The Spectre moved closer toward Simmons and grabbed the man by the lapels of his suit coat. He looked deep into the accountant's eyes and asked, "Will you confess your crime or do you prefer to come into the Valley of Death with me?" 

Simmons backed away in horror after The Spectre released his coat. Almost in hysterics, he said staring at seemingly nothing in the room, "Those terrible eyes -- I can't bear to look into them! _LET ME GO! LET ME GO!" _

Turning to the other men in the room, the accountant made a startling declaration, "I'll confess! I did it! I'll tell everything!" 

Detective Hayes was dumbfounded by the turn of events. He said, "That's odd -- just as he was escaping, he confessed of his own free will." 

*** 

Much later, after Corrigan and Hayes processed their prisoner at police headquarters, the two men stepped out into the night air. 

Hayes said to Corrigan, "How about spending some time together -- like old times?" 

"Sorry," Jim replied quickly. "Can't make it!" He offered no further excuse. But in his mind he thought, _"A ghost can't follow normal pursuits." _

It was dark out and Corrigan began to cross the street from headquarters. 

Suddenly, Hayes yelled out, "JIM! LOOK OUT!" 

An older-model red-colored truck was barrelling down on Jim with no headlights on. The warning from Detective Hayes came too late. Corrigan had no opportunity to move and the truck struck him square in the back. Jim Corrigan's body was thrown several feet onto the pavement. 

Hayes immediately rushed to where his partner's body lay in the street. He was horrified by what he had just witnessed. Shaking a fist at the truck that never stopped, he said over Corrigan's body, "Those cold-blooded killers! They've murdered Jim -- They've ..." 

Hayes' curses came to an abrupt halt when he suddenly watched Corrigan sit up -- seemingly unhurt. Jim said to his partner, "Calm down! I'm just a little shaken up -- but no broken bones." 

Hayes was astounded as Jim stood up with very little effort. Wayne asked, "You mean you're unhurt? It's a miracle!" 

Corrigan, rubbed his elbow and replied, "Just lucky, I guess." 

Inside the truck which was now several blocks away from where it hit Jim Corrigan, the rough-looking driver said to his equally seedy-looking passenger, "I swore that'd I get that interfering cop -- an' I always keep my word!" 

Back on the street in front of police headquarters, Hayes was unable to observe that The Spectre had emerged into existence and started in pursuit of the fleeing truck. 

The Spectre flew like the wind after its target that carried two criminals inside. 

Now that it was safe distance away from the scene of the crime, the driver of the truck checked his speedometer to make sure he wasn't speeding. It would do no good to be caught speeding at this juncture in their getaway. As his eyes started to move back onto the road, the driver was shocked at the impossible sight that sat before him. 

"What the --?!" the man exclaimed. "Someone's sitting on the hood! B-but how ...?" 

Sitting on the hood of the truck was the terrifying image of The Spectre. The fighter of evil was staring hard at the two men inside the truck as it continued to move down the road. 

The truck was now in the hills of Gateway City. It was on a winding road near the would-be murderers hideout. The winding hill road had no guardrails at the side to prevent a vehicle from falling off the road and into a deep ravine. 

Though frightened, the driver could only think of escape in his mind and continued moving even though there was a strange man sitting on his hood. Perhaps the terrible-looking man would fall off and the criminals could continue on their way, the driver hoped. 

Instead, however, the face of the monstrous figure on hood began to grow to inhuman proportions. Larger and larger the Spectre's face grew until the driver could no longer see the road. The Spectre's face now consumed the entire windshield. 

The driver cried out, "He--he ain't human!" 

The passenger threw his arms across his face and said, "Those terrible eyes -- they burn into your very soul!" 

The driver of the truck was frozen with horror. He lost control of the vehicle and it hurtled off the edge of road headed for the bottom of the ravine. But instead of falling -- the truck remained suspended in mid-air as though a giant hand was holding it. 

"HEY!" the truck passenger exclaimed. 

The driver yelled, "WHAT?!" 

Defying the laws of nature, the truck moved upward in the air and was magically placed back on the road again to continue its journey. 

Inside the vehicle, the passenger said in obvious relief, "I--I still can't believe it! It's -- it's ..." 

"Whether we were dreamin' or not -- we're clearin' out of here!" the driver said to his cohort. 

Unseen behind the truck, to the side of the road, The Spectre himself was mystified by what had happened. He said to himself, "That's odd! The truck's behavior wasn't my doing. Then how ...?" 

Behind the man who battled evil for the might of God, an accented voice answered what was supposed to had been a rhertorical question. "Permit _me to take the credit." _

The Spectre whirled around and he saw the figure of an older man dressed in dark evening clothes with a top hat. The man had a mustache and a pointed goatee. 

The Spectre asked the man, "But how could ...?" 

The man spoke with the air of authority and power, "I am ZOR! Like yourself, a spirit confined to Earth -- only through the centuries I have spread _evil upon this world." _

Immediately upon hearing the word _evil, The Spectre backed away from the strange man. The Spectre became more wary of this apparent adversary. _

"Your career ends _NOW!" declared the Spectre. _

Where ordinary men would had cringed at the sight of the Spectre, Zor only laughed at the hooded figure and replied, "We shall see!" 

The two powerful figures prepared to square off against one another. 

A fantastic struggle ensued as the two strange figures -- unseen to anyone else -- began to swiftly grow in size. Zor threw a hard right fist into the body of the Spectre. The battler of evil stumbled a few steps back and realized he was fighting a being with immense power. 

Within minutes, the two mighty titans towered over the countryside. They continued to grow as they traded punches. The Spectre managed to rock the giant Zor with right fist to the jaw. Zor's head snapped back from the blow. 

Larger and larger to the two super-natural beings grew. So immense that they soon reached the blackness of space. The battle of who could outgrow who was taxing the Spectre's vast powers. 

Taller and taller they grew until finally The Sprecte reached his limit and acknowledged, "I--can't--equal--your--size!" 

Zor, who was now towering over The Spectre, sneered and replied, "Fool! Time has made me your superior!" 

Even though he knew he could cause physcial damage to The Spectre at the moment, Zor told his adversary, "I leave you now to bring you _real anguish." _

Like the magician that he resembled, there was suddenly a large puff of smoke and Zor was gone! He disappeared, literally, into thin air. 

The Spectre said to himself, "Alone! He's gone!" 

The events that The Spectre had involved himself in had only taken mere moments in real time on earth. Back in front of the Gateway City Police headquarters, Detective Wayne Hayes was still questioning the well-being of his partner, Jim Corrigan. "You're certain you are all right?" 

Brushing off his clothes, Corrigan replied, "Positive!" 

In his mind though, Corrigan was thinking back to the clash that The Spectre had just gone through. He thought, _"I wonder what Zor meant by his threat?" _

Minutes later, Corrigan got into his car and headed for his home. As he was driving, he was struck by a fearful thought and soon afterwards an idea came to his mind. 

He said to himself in the car, "I need assistance." 

Once at his apartment, he walked swiftly to his phone and dialed a special number. A number that was electronically rerouted automatically to other phones around the United States. Over the receiver, Corrigan heard what sounded like two sounds of someone picking up the phone but no one offered a greeting. Soon Corrigan gave a cryptic message. "Uncle _Jim in __Gateway City has __passed away. Maybe you could go there and __help with the arrangements?" Then he hung up. _

Looking at the black telephone with the roatry dial, Corrigan only hoped that assistance would arrive quickly. 

TO BE CONTINUED .... 

*** 

Come visit me and/or Chris Dee and the other fine writers at Gotham After Dark Message Board at: http://pub101.ezboard.com/bgothampm 


	8. Chapter 8

JSA: Atrocity 

By Bruce Wayne 

DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters portrayed in this story are copyright by DC Comics, an AOL/Time/Warner company. They are used without permission for entertainment without profit by the author. 

An Elseworld's story: Stories, situation or events involving familiar characters in unfamiliar settings. 

Chapter 8 

"I got here as soon as I could, Spooky!" 

"Your feeble attempt at humor fails to impress me, Atom. I am merely an instrument of His vengence not a walking Halloween costume." 

The Spectre and The Atom were meeting in Gateway Park. It was the pre-designated meeting site in case The Spectre or Mr Teriffic needed assistance from other members of the Justice Society of America. 

The Atom smiled as he said, "Oh, I know that, buddy, you just the scare the sh ..." 

"I'm here!" a voice said from above. 

Both The Spectre and Atom looked up to see the winged image of Hawkman. Hawkman seemed to hover over the two other heroes and then slowly floated to the ground. 

"Thank you for coming so soon, Hawkman." The Spectre said in greeting. 

"I was quite surprised it was you to be the first one to call for assistance since the JSA was re-established, Spectre," Hawkman said. "It must be pretty serious if you call for help." 

"Yeah, what's up, Spo ... I mean ... Mr. Spectre?" Atom queried. 

The Spectre nodded to his two companions. "It is quite serious, gentlemen. I have come in contact with an evildoer who seems to be even more powerful than the Spectre force." 

The Atom asked in an uncredulous tone, "More powerful than you?!" He turned and started to walk away. "Well, I just remembered another case I needed to attend to. See ya guys." 

"Atom?!" Hawkman called out. 

The Atom turned, faced them and laughed as he said, "I was just kidding! Tell us more, Spo ... Spectre, I'm sure the three of us will be more than a match for the guy." 

The Spectre shook his head. "Ah, another attempt at your feeble humor. The correct response would be to laugh. However, I cannot. The adversary that I am in a battle with is named Zor. He claims to be a spirit like myself and is a being of immense power." 

"Well, now he is up against the JSA," said Hawkman boldly. 

The blue-cowled and caped Atom asked, "What's the plan?" 

A fearful thought struck The Spectre. He felt a sudden need to go quickly to the residence of a one-time love of Jim Corrigan's, named Clarice Winston. 

"Zor spoke of wishing to bring me _real anguish.," The Spectre replied. "I am afraid I may know how he plans to accomplish that. Wait here. You will receive word from me shortly." _

As Hawkman and The Atom looked on, The Spectre disappeared before their very eyes. 

*** 

The Spectre returned to the body of Jim Corrigan. Struck by a fearful thought, Jim drove swiftly toward the residence of his one-time love, Clarice Winston. 

As he was driving, Jim said to himself, "Can Zor possibly plan to harm Clarice?" 

At that very moment, the evil Zor was indeed outside the home of Clarice. As the young woman stood outside, Zor hid behind a nearby tree. He thought to himself as he spied the girl, _"This may prove amusing." _

Still behind the tree in the dark, Zor transformed himself into the image of Jim Corrigan. _"And now to carry out my plan," he thought to himself. _

Zor stepped out from behind the tree and Clarice spotted him in the darkness. The attractive brunette greeted what she thought was Jim Corrigan. "Jim! You've come to see me! But I thought ..." 

"I couldn't stay away any longer," replied Zor/Corrigan. Looking directly into her eyes, he added with as much feeling as he could, "I've realized what a fool I've been! Come -- Elope with me ..." 

Clarice became excited at what he was saying to her. "Elope? Oh, Jim -- You've made me so happy!" 

Soon, Clarice went inside her home and quickly packed a suitcase of clothes. It wasn't long until she drove off with the person whom she thought was Jim Corrigan. Clarice was unaware that she was entering the net of the terrible Zor. 

About twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang at the Winston residence. The mother of Clarice answered the door. 

"May I see Clarice, at once? It's important." asked Jim. 

The mother was astounded to find Corrigan at her door. With worry in her voice, she said to him, "But, Jim, I saw her drive off with _you a few moments ago!" _

"With _me? Are you sure, Mrs Winston?" _

"I--I thought it was you! I suppose it wasn't. I must've been mistaken. I'm sorry." 

"No apology necessary. I'll call back for her tomorrow. Good evening, Mrs Winston." 

Once out of sight of the Winston residence, Jim transformed himself into 

The Spectre and streaked in pursuit of Zor. 

_"I've got to reach that monster before he harms Clarice," he thought to himself. _

Using his immense super-natural abilities, The Spectre was able to pick up the thought waves of his former love, Clarice. Using her thought waves as a homing signal, it wasn't long until The Spectre was on the tail of Zor, who was presently driving a car. 

Even though The Spectre was invisible to the eyes of mortals, Zor was able to see the fighter of evil in the automobile's rearview mirror. 

The villian thought to himself, _"Well ... well ... well ... an anticipated visitor." _

With his mind, The Spectre opened up a telepathic link to The Atom and Hawkman. The present location he was at was not far from Gateway Park. He hoped that the two JSA members would help in defeating Zor. 

Via the link, Hawkman replied, _"We're on our way!" _

Lifting the small Atom in his arms, Hawkman started to rise into the air with the help of his incredible wings. 

Back on the street, an incredible scene was taking place. Only those who were actually participating in the event could see what was occurring. Even though it appeared that Jim Corrigan was at the wheel of the speeding car, in the air, outside and above the vehicle, two figures were hovering -- sizing one another up. 

It wasn't long before Hawkman and The Atom approached the scene. Seeing their arrival, The Spectre willed them to have the ability to see Zor and himself. 

The Atom pointed and exclaimed, "There they are!" 

Hawkman began his descent toward the car. 

Confronting Zor, The Spectre demanded, "Release that girl!" 

With crossed arms, Zor said in open defiance, "But I prefer not to." 

The response gave The Spectre no other choice but to begin to do battle with the evildoer. As The Spectre leaped toward the girl in the passenger seat of the vehicle, the automobile exploded in a dazzling burst of energy. 

The disappearance happened just as Hawkman touched the ground with The Atom. 

"Holy Smoke! Didja see that?!" yelled Atom. "They're gone!" 

The two JSA members joined up with The Spectre, who turned to them and said, "Zor has escaped into another dimension. But which one?" 

The Atom and Hawkman had no answer. 

*** 

Back in the car, Clarice began to notice something strange was happening. Excitedly, she remarked, "Jim -- we're streaking up through blackness!" 

The automobile was indeed sailing quickly into the darkness of the night. 

Zor/Corrigan merely replied to the young woman, "Frightened?" 

Thinking that was an odd answer, Clarice turned to look toward him and was shocked by what she saw. Lifting an arm to her face to seemingly protect to herself, she screamed, "Your face -- it's _changing! You're __NOT Jim Corrigan!" _

The evil man at the steering wheel smiled and said to her, "ZOR at your service!" Then he laughed. 

Clarice looked out the window again and saw indescribable, unearthly sights. As the fearful dimensional creatures yammered outside the vehicle, Clarice fainted in the passenger seat. 

Sometime later, in an unknown dimension, Zor's unusual method of transportation came to a stop. He got out of the driver's seat and went around the car to the passenger side door. Opening it, he closely examined the beautiful young woman who was wearing a purple dress. 

Zor picked the girl up into his arms. As he was carrying her, he looked into her still unconscious face and said, "It's been a long time since I've had such a lovely guest." 

*** 

Back on earth, just after Zor had disappeared, Hawkman and The Atom heard The Spectre say, "If only there were some way I could combat Zor." 

The two other heroes watched as The Spectre exclaimed, "I have it!" He raised his head to the heavens, spread his arms wide and called out, "Almighty! URGENT! Bring me to you!" 

Within an instant, The Spectre left the presence of The Atom and Hawkman and was flashing up through the impenetrable darkness. 

"Where'd he go?" asked Atom. 

Looking up into the sky, Hawkman replied, "I can't be sure. I can only venture a guess." 

Moments later, The Spectre was standing before the One who he was the instrument of vengence for on earth. The fighter of evil was explaining his dilemma to the one being of ultimate power. 

"The girl --" The Spectre said, "-- a helpless pawn, is in danger at the hands of Zor! I beg for Your intervention." He then lowered his head awaiting a reply. 

A thunderous voice was heard through the light and clouds, "ZOR SHALL BE SUMMONED!" 

At Zor's abode in another dimension, the evildoer had placed the helpless girl on an uncomfortable table in a bare room. The room was dark, dank, and the walls appeared to be only cut from stone. 

Zor had covered the lower portion of the still unconscious girl's body with a single white sheet. Placing his hands on her breasts and fondling them, he looked into her face. The long-dormant feelings of desire were becoming aroused inside of him. He leaned his own face closer to hers and said, "One _Kiss of Death, and you shall be imprisoned here in this dimension for all time." _

But before their lips could meet, Zor's figure began fading away. From the bottom of his body, his form started to seemingly melt. Even though he was a being of immense power, Zor was himself startled and could only utter "What ...?" before he vanished from the side of Clarice. 

When Zor reappeared, he saw the angry figure of The Spectre standing before him. The thunderous voice from nowhere, but seemingly everywhere, boomed again, "THIS MATTER MUST BE SETTLED BETWEEN YOU!" 

With his right hand clenched and his arm cocked to throw a punch, The Spectre demanded, "Zor! Free that girl!" 

Waving his arm in displeasure of the demand, the evil man replied, "The Spectre asks favors of Zor, eh? Sorry -- I refuse." 

Once again Zor vanished into a puff of smoke. 

The Spectre turned to the Almighty being. The thunderous voice boomed. 'YOU NOW POSSESS THE POWER TO TRACK ZOR THROUGH THE DIMENSIONS!" 

The Spectre bowed his head in acknowledgement and said, "I am grateful." 

Through the numerous dimensions that lay through the vast universe, The Spectre pursued Zor and finally arrived at one. It was dark. What stood before The Spectre was Zor's evil castle. Only a single window on the second floor was lit with a soft light. It appeared that perhaps lighted, flaming torches were the source of the light. 

Looking out through the window, Zor noticed his visitor that was approaching. Talking to himself, the evildoer laughed and said, "Convenient of The Spectre to walk into the trap I've prepared for him." 

With no fear, The Spectre entered the castle by becoming an apparition that he really was. Walking through the wall like a ghost, the battler of evil immediately spotted the girl that he came to rescue. "Clarice!" he exclaimed. 

The unconscious form of Clarice still laid on the hard table. A white sheet covered her lower body to just below her breasts. 

As The Spectre hurried toward Clarice, he was engulfed within a pillar of light and was frozen transfixed against the wall. 

"I can't move!" The Spectre said. 

Zor walked easily into the room, as though he didn't have a care in the world. He looked at The Spectre with a smirk on his face and said, "Naturally you can't move -- because you are trapped within the Paralysis Ray. Here you shall remain throughout the ages. 

The Spectre thought to himself, _"I must think fast." _

Laughing at his confident belief that he had defeated The Spectre, Zor explained, "Yes -- and through the centuries you will be forced to listen to Zor fling taunts at the Prince of Fools, who thought he could outwit me." 

Though he was unable to move his body, The Spectre could talk to Zor. He said to the evildoer, "Free me and you can have the written formula for creating life." 

Zor was intrigued by the offer. He looked at The Spectre and considered making the deal. If he had the knowledge of creating life at will, he could make an army of Zor's and take over the universe! 

"Well, is it deal?" asked The Spectre. 

It appeared the Spectre's plan worked when Zor began to reach for the switch to the Paralysis Ray that was located on a nearby wall. As he flipped the switch, Zor held out his hand to The Spectre and said, "I'll take the formula -- and attend to you later." 

Freed from the Paralysis Ray, The Spectre leaped at Zor. 

"That's all I wanted." The Spectre declared. 

Backing up toward another wall, Zor prepared to do battle and warned, "You forget that I am capable of crushing you." 

The two super-natural titans locked in battle. The Spectre was able to get an upper-cut to the chin in against Zor. The evil being was rocked slightly by the blow. 

But due to his evil wisdom, Zor proved to be eventually more powerful. Zor with superior strength grabbed The Sprectre by the neck and began to squeeze. The Spectre sank to his knees. 

Zor demanded, "The secret -- give me the secret!" 

A note appeared in The Spectre's hand and he tossed it to the floor as he said, "Here." 

Zor leapt for the paper with a cry of triumph. He grabbed it and exclaimed, "The secret of life -- mine!" 

The Spectre's strategy was successful. As Zor went to grab the piece of paper, he rushed to the switch and imprisoned Zor within the Paralysis Ray. 

As the light of ray shined on the evildoer, Zor was shocked, "What ...?" 

"Who's stupid now?" asked The Spectre. 

With the evil Zor now immobilized, The Spectre approached the table on which the still unconscious form of Clarice lay. He gently picked her up and turned toward Zor. 

The Spectre said, "I leave you to the fate that you planned for me. Farewell." 

An almost frantic Zor pled his case for mercy, "Imprisoned for all eternity -- the solitude -- I'll go mad!" 

With the beautiful girl in his arms, The Spectre faded away from the evil Zor's castle and hurtled back through the dimensions toward Earth-Two. 

When he arrived back on Earth-Two, The Spectre reappeared before the still bewildered Hawkman and Atom. 

"You're back!" The Atom called out. "Where'dja go?" 

Hawkman said, "You've only been gone for a few moments." 

"Allow me to return the girl to the safety of her home and I shall return to explain what occurred," The Sprectre told the two JSA members. "Thank you for your assistance." 

"But we didn't do ..." The Atom started -- but it was too late. The Spectre and Clarice disappeared before his very eyes. The Atom turned to Hawkman. "We didn't do anything to help him." 

Hawkman nodded. "What mattered the most was that Justice Society members came to help when called." 

"You're right, birdman." The Atom agreed. 

Back at the Winston residence, The Spectre deposited Clarice on her bed and willed himself to disappear. 

The girl suddenly regained consciousness and brought her hands to the sides of her head. "Such a terrible experience!" She cried out to herself. "It seemed that ... It must've been a nightmare! I hope I can forget it." 

As the Spectre left the home, he thought to himself, "_As Jim Corrigan, I loved Clarice deeply. But now I am The Spectre. My work is to destroy evil -- and to that end I dedicate myself." _

To Be Continued ... 

*** 

Come visit me and/or Chris Dee and the other fine writers at Gotham After Dark Message Board at: http://pub101.ezboard.com/bgothampm 


	9. Chapter 9

JSA: Atrocity 

By Bruce Wayne 

DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters portrayed in this story are copyright by DC Comics, an AOL/Time/Warner company. They are used without permission for entertainment without profit by the author. 

An Elseworld's story: Stories, situation or events involving familiar characters in unfamiliar settings. 

Chapter 9 

Wildcat left the highway behind him and turned the Catocycle onto a deserted street that led to Flagg Furriers in Queens. He felt a cool breeze in the air. The setting sun was visible and Wildcat squinted at it, smiling. 

Trees lined both sides of the street. Wildcat turned right, his rear wheel skidding a little. The Catocycle fishtailed slightly, as it should. 

He could see his destination straight ahead. The security gates were closed, as they should be on a Sunday evening. Wildcat pulled into a nearby alley and went to the rear. A security gate was open -- that didn't look good. He slowed to a quiet stop. 

While he dismounted, he thought back to what brought him here. Ted Grant's friendly beat cop -- Ol' Clancy -- had stopped by the gym and related that an informant told detectives that Wildcat's arch-nemesis, The Huntress, was planning to acquire some very expensive jaguar skins from a local furrier. Since then, Wildcat had been checking the furriers in Queens, his home turf. 

He passed under the open security gate that was supposed to guard the rear delivery door. Wildcat tried the door and it slowly rose. He closed the door behind him just to make it more difficult for anyone to escape, should anyone get away from him. 

He opened an interior door and entered the main portion of the store. He saw a cat across the room. It was strange to find a cat in a store that sold furs. The cat was sitting on a table. "Hi, Kitty," he called out in a whisper. 

The cat meowed once. 

He shrugged. It was more than he expected. 

Wildcat walked to his right, toward another section of the store. 

He heard something and turned around. Probably the cat, he thought, but the cat hadn't moved. 

"Wildcat?" 

"Oh, jeez," he rasped, turning to his left. He saw a man with a submachine gun. 

"Are you Wildcat?" 

It was a second man, this one to Wildcat's right, also carrying a submachine gun. 

"Wildcat who's just returned from London?" 

A third man came out of a small room, a silenced pistol in his left hand. He held the gun too casually, as if he were right-handed and the banana he was eating from his right hand was, for the moment, more important than the gun. 

"Yes, that's what they usually call a guy who wears a cat costume." 

The man with the banana and the pistol smiled. "I guess so. I found this banana in the other room with some other fruit. Would you like an apple or something?" 

"No, thanks." Wildcat shook his head. 

"And the bananas sure do taste fresh." 

"Good," Wildcat said, smiling. "Wouldn't want to think that a place that sells five thousand dollar minks offers their customers stale fruit to munch on." 

"You know," the man with the pistol said, "most people we come around to knock off aren't nearly so friendly. So gosh, I didn't know there would be fresh fruit here." 

Wildcat smiled again. "Well, people have come around trying to knock me off before. So, you know, experience counts." 

"How true." The man with the silenced pistol agreed. "Would you like to know who paid us to kill you? What about it? We're in no big hurry." 

"Sure." Wildcat shrugged and walked slightly forward. He heard the rattle of a sling swivel against metal as the two men flanking him moved their submachine guns to follow him. 

The man with the banana and the pistol moved a few steps down the room to where the cat lay. 

"Some guy sounded like somebody doing a Barry Fitzgerald impression." 

"IRA," Wildcat suggested. 

"Guess so. He said you messed with some guy named O'Malley. He wanted you to know that was why you were getting hit. Guess they didn't have any of their own people around to get you, so they hired us. We smuggle some explosives, stolen weapons, things like that. Smuggle them out of the country for the IRA. We told 'em it wasn't any imposition to ask us to kill you. Anyway, a couple thousand bucks in anybody's pocket is good these days." 

"Amen to that," Wildcat agreed. 

"Times are tough," the man with the banana said. "Would you like it sitting down or standing? Your choice." 

"How about running?" Wildcat smiled. 

"Hey listen," the spokesman said, "it's good to deal with a pro -- even though you do wear a funny costume -- you know, keep your sense of humor in adversity. I like that. Laugh in the face of death." 

"Yeah, that's me." Wildcat grinned. "But I must warn you -- make one move to harm me and she'll cut your eyeballs out, friend." 

"Who? Everybody was gone before we even got here." 

"No, she will." Wildcat pointed to the half-snoozing cat on the edge of the table. 

The man with the pistol turned to look at the cat for a brief instant. Wildcat noted one of the men with the submachine gun also stole a glance at her. The cat opened her eyes and looked back at the men. 

"The cat?" 

"Yeah, you've heard of 'em." Wildcat eased himself against a wheeled rack of furs. He leaned an arm onto the rack, the subgun muzzles following him. "I mean," he said, "well, everybody's heard of attack dogs. You know, with urban overcrowding, the economy -- dogs eat a lot. Anyway, this outfit on the West Coast trains attack cats. And I happen to know that this place has one." 

The guy with the banana laughed. "Her?" 

Wildcat sighed. "Look, one pro to another. I'm trying to warn you. It was written up in _Time magazine about a year ago. You miss the article?" He turned to one of the other flunkies. "How about you?" _

The man holding the pistol raised his eyebrows, taking another bite of the banana. "What article?" 

"You ever watch TV? A couple of the news shows had some film about the place -- Kelsoe's Killer Cats." 

"Bullshit," the man on his right snarled. 

Wildcat shrugged. "You know how cats can jump. They go right for the face, the eyes. In that magazine article there was a police photo of a guy who tried to knock over a liquor store where one of Kelsoe's Killer Cats was on guard. Jeez, the face." 

Wildcat swallowed hard, and right hand drifted toward the pole on the right side of the wheeled rack of furs. "So don't go slapping me with a lawsuit afterward. You've been warned," the hero concluded. 

The man with the pistol had finished eating the banana. He set the peel down next to the cat on the table -- but not too near her -- then said, "Okay, you _freak, enough bullshit. You're getting it." _

"Sic 'em, Kitty!" Wildcat shouted. 

The man wheeled toward the motionless bored-looking feline. So did the man to Wildcat's right. Wildcat shoved the rack of furs into the closest man on his left and then launched himself into the man on his right. The rack of furs crashed into the first man. The mink coats swallowed the would-be hitman. Glancing back, Wildcat saw the man desperately trying to extricate himself from the furs. 

Wildcat's right shoulder made contact against the man on his right. The submachine gun fired wildly into the ceiling, and plaster rained down as Wildcat got his balance. He snapped his right fist into the subgunner's jaw, at the same time half wheeling right, his left foot kicking up into the subgunner's right forearm, impacting the arm and subgun against the man's rib cage. Wildcat finished the rotation and balanced now on his left foot. He back-kicked with his right into the subgunner's face. The man fell backward, his head hitting a table with a sickening crunch. 

The second subgunner was strafing the wall as Wildcat dropped into a crouch. He rotated half right and wrenched the submachine gun out of the unconscious man's hands. A vase beside Wildcat's head shattered as the man with the silenced pistol opened fire. 

Wildcat had the subgun now. He threw it at the other subgunner to give himself a break from the gunfire coming at him as the man ducked to avoid being hit. He rolled to the right and came up on his knees. He dived at the man with the silenced pistol. The man went down with Wildcat on top of him. 

The second subgunner was now re-targeting, firing from behind a sofa as Wildcat hit the floor. The subgunner's bullets missed their intended target and tore into the man with the silenced pistol. The man was dead. 

Wildcat pushed himself to his feet and then reached into the compartment on the back of his glove for a _shuriken. He pulled out the throwing star from the left glove with his right hand. _

The subgunner was standing. The weapon started to chatter into the wall beside Wildcat as he threw the _shuriken, snatched a second, threw it, then a third, throwing it, too. The man's weapon discharged into the floor and then into the ceiling as he screamed, "My eyes!" _

Wildcat took a running dive across the back of the couch, tackling the blinded subgunner. The man's eyesockets were leaking fluid as Wildcat wrestled him to the floor with the submachine gun between them. Wildcat's right knee smashed up into the left side of the blinded gunman's head -- once, twice, a third time. The screaming stopped. The body didn't even twitch. 

Wildcat pushed himself to his feet and started walking to look for the store's office area. 

Then Wildcat heard the cat meowing. Turning around, he saw her come out of the stockroom. Wildcat reached out and petted her. 

He walked to a nearby office and dialed the police. He told them to send an ambulance. He then hung up and left the furrier. No need for him to stay around and answer questions from the police. 

Sometime later, Wildcat returned to the Catlair hidden inside of Ted Grant's gymnasium. After changing out of his costume, Grant went to his small apartment that was also located in the gym building that had once been an old warehouse. 

He thumbed through the mail. There were bills and a letter from a publisher wanting to do a biography on his former life as the heavyweight boxing champion of the world. He opened it and found a confirmation letter, a copy of the completely executed contract and a check. He folded the check and put it into his wallet. There was a telegram. He opened it. 

It was from Bruce Wayne in Gotham City. 

MAN WITH EXPLOSIVE PUNCH HEADED FOR OUR SHORES STOP BELIEVED WORKING IN CONCERT WITH MAN OF A THOUSAND FACES STOP TWO GOOD GUYS DOWN FOR THE COUNT STOP A BRITISH INSPECTOR MISSING STOP TEAM NEEDS TO MEET STOP 

He crumpled the telgram and left it on the counter. He walked over to a fruit bowl and picked up a banana. Suddenly he realized he was hungry. 

TO BE CONTINUED .... 

*** 

Come visit me and/or Chris Dee and the other fine writers at Gotham After Dark Message Board at: http://pub101.ezboard.com/bgothampm 


	10. Chapter 10

JSA: Atrocity 

By Bruce Wayne 

DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters portrayed in this story are copyright by DC Comics, an AOL/Time/Warner company. They are used without permission for entertainment without profit by the author. 

An Elseworld's story: Stories, situation or events involving familiar characters in unfamiliar settings. 

Chapter 10 

He studied himself in the lavatory mirror. The short blond wig made his teeth seem vastly more prominent. 

Underneath the black leather vest he wore no shirt. On his left forearm he'd body-painted a rose which looked like a tattoo. 

Another man entered the bathroom. 

False-Face stepped back from the mirror, put his left combat-booted foot up on the toliet bowl and began to retied the boot lace. The skintight white jeans he had on hurt his crotch. 

The guy who had walked into the bathroom was tall and chunky looking. He wore blue jeans, a black leather jacket, combat boots and a plaid shirt. He began to comb his brown hair. 

"Hi," the man combing his hair said. 

"Hi," False-Face said. 

"Ain't seen you around." 

"Don't get to Gateway much," False-Face said, smiling. He had finished with his boot and now stood beside the man, combing his own "hair." 

"Good scene around here." 

"Free, yeah," False-Face said, proud of his American accent. 

"Can I buy you a drink?" the man asked. 

"Sure," False-Face replied. They both finished combing their hair at the same time, and the man with the plaid shirt held the washroom door open for him. False-Face smiled, going through ahead of him. As they started toward the bar, he felt the man groping for his left hand. False-Face let him take it. His blue eyes were still probing the faces of the crowd -- at the tables, at the bar, near the bandstand and the dancing couples, as well. All men. Yet, he couldn't find the face of Flyboy. 

With his new friend holding his left hand, False-Face muscled in at the bar between him and a thin, overly made-up man. The man was talking animatedly with the bartender. 

The big bartender, who was built like a bouncer and wore a see-through pink shirt, turned to False-Face and his friend. 

"What would you like?" False-Face's friend asked him. 

"Oh," False-Face said, laughing coyly, "whatever you're having." 

"A Singapore Sling." 

"Fine," False-Face enthused. 

"Make it two, then, please." 

The bartender nodded and walked away. 

False-Face scanned the bar in greater detail. He finally saw Billy "Flyboy" Mason. 

"Would you like to dance later?" False-Face's friend asked him. 

False-Face said, "Sure, later." 

His friend was groping him. False-Face let him do it, feeling the man's hand on his buttocks. His mind was focused elsewhere. 

False-Face knew Flyboy well. He was slightly built, short and had never been anything but openly gay. He was the best helicopter pilot False-Face knew. False-Face watched Mason's thin, high-cheekboned features, his prominent forehead, the hair combed down to hide the recession of the blond hair from the face. The eyes were black. Two vastly larger men flanked Flyboy on either side. Mason's back was to the bar rail. They were arguing. 

"Where you from?" It was False-Face's friend. 

The drinks arrived, and False-Face answered, "Down in L.A. -- but I like the scene here." 

"You come up here alone? I mean, no old man?" 

False-Face smiled. The man stopped groping him. "No, I got no old man," False-Face said. 

The groping started again. The friend's left hand held the Singapore Sling. "Toast, to us?" 

"Sure," False-Face said, clinking glasses with the man beside him. He sipped at his drink. It tasted like urine, he thought. He set the drink down, turning to the bandstand. The group was starting into a fifties routine. The lead singer had on a pink sweater and poodle skirt, but the girl singer wasn't a girl. 

"Wanna dance now?" False-Face's friend asked. 

"No, let me finish my drink. This is delicious." 

"Okay, honey," the man said. 

False-Face looked back down the bar at Flyboy and the two big guys who were bracing him. One of the men reached out, knotting his right fist into Billy's hair. Flyboy slapped him. The man holding Billy's hair yanked on the hair, snapping the head back as the second man backhanded Flyboy across the mouth. 

"That go on here a lot?" False-Face asked his friend. 

"What, fighting? Yes, you know how some guys are -- cats." 

"Yes," False-Face nodded. Mason seemed unable to protect himself. He was running true to form -- always poor in a fight. 

False-Face turned to look at his companion. "Darling, I just decided -- you're not my type." His left hand reached out and pulled on the waistband of his friend's jeans. With his right hand he poured the Singapore Sling inside the front of the man's pants. 

"Bitch!" 

False-Face brought up his right knee as he turned, ramming it into the man's crotch. As the man doubled over, screaming, False-Face worked the knee again -- into the man's face. With the side of his left hand he executed a swift chop across the back of the neck. The man sank to the barroom floor. 

False-Face stepped away from the bar toward the two men who were hassling Flyboy. They turned around and the nearer of the two came at him, a little uncertain. False-Face feinted an obvious punch with his left. The man started to block it as False-Face's right hand -- still holding the glass -- slapped forward, smashing the glass across the bridge of the man's nose. False-Face let go of the glass just in time to avoid cutting his fingers. White cartilage began to spot red. The blood gushed freely from the large cut on the man's nose. False-Face wheeled half right, snapping his left foot up and out, slamming the combat-boot's sole against the first man's chest. 

There was fighting and screaming everywhere now as he let the man fall. His right foot snapped out backward, mule-kicking the man in the side of the head, putting him out hard. 

The other man who'd been harassing Billy Mason wheeled. A switchblade appeared in his right hand. There was a loud click as the blade shot up from the handle and locked in place. 

False-Face reached to the bar and grabbed an empty wine bottle. He slapped the base of the bottle against the edge of the bar. The base shattered, leaving him with a jagged weapon. 

The man with the switchblade took a step backward, gauging his opponent, then started forward. False-Face tossed the bottle into his left hand, feigning a lunge. The man dodged the thrust. False-Face wheeled to the left, snapping his foot up into the man's face. The man reeled under the impact as False-Face finished the turn, his left, combat-booted foot striking out for the inside of the man's extended right forearm. 

The switchblade spun out of the man's hand. False-Face, switching the broken bottle back to his right hand, took a long step forward on his left foot, leaning into his adversary. His left fist smashed straight into the center of the face, while his right hand, still gripping the bottle, rammed forward into the abdomen, just below the sternum. His opponent shrieked as False-Face pulled back his arm, ready for another thrust. His right arm snapped forward, plunging the jagged edge of the bottle into the exposed throat. 

False-Face dropped the bottle and let the body fall back flat on the floor. 

Flyboy's dark eyes looked at him. 

"Who the hell are you?" Mason hissed. 

False-Face sensed someone running toward him. He turned, punching out with his right hand. The man tried to dodge but was not swift enough. The middle knuckles of False-Face's fingers impacted against the base of the nose, breaking it, driving it up through the ethmoid bone and into the brain. The man fell over dead. 

"Who do you think I am?" False-Face asked in his German accent. 

"F.F.?" 

"Let's get the hell out of here," False-Face snapped. 

He shoved Flyboy toward the front door. False-Face could hear a police siren now as he followed Mason up the low steps, bursting through the door. 

They collided with a uniformed Gateway City cop, his gun drawn. 

False-Face's kick caught the officer under the chin, snapping the head back. The neck broke with an audible crack. 

False-Face picked up the gun and tossed it away, half dragging the limping Flyboy. 

"I can't run in these cowboy boots. The damn heels are too high," Billy Mason complained. 

False-Face kept pulling him toward his car. It was still parked at the curb half a block away. False-Face was running, occasionally looking behind him. A police car was coming up the street, it's roof light flashing. False-Face found the car keys in the left front pocket of the tight-fitting white jeans. He jammed the key into the door lock and opened it, shoving Flyboy across the front seat. 

False-Face flipped onto the hood and executed a body roll across it, landing on the driver's side. Mason already had the door open for him. 

False-Face threw himself behind the wheel. "Down," he shouted, ducking below the level of the seat. The sound of the siren rose and fell in intensity as it passed. 

False-Face sat up. He inserted the key into the ignition. "It's all right now, Flyboy. Just relax and sit here beside me. If any cops see us, they'll think we're just out on a date or something." 

"F.F., but you look so --" 

"Good to you?" False-Face smiled, glancing at Mason before he pulled out into the street. 

"I never knew you were --" 

"I'm not, of course. But the last time you saw me, I was dressed as a Catholic priest. I'm not religious, either." 

There was little traffic. False-Face drove the stolen Ford close to the parking lane so a police car could pass him. 

"There is a job, Flyboy. It is of great importance to the right -- our right." 

"The movement?" Mason asked breathlessly. 

"Yes, and it requires the most consummate helicopter pilot who exists, so I naturally came looking for you. The undergound knew your haunts. There wasn't time to wait near your apartment, I'm afraid. Good thing for you I didn't ... those two leather boys looked as though they didn't like you." 

"Ah, a couple of --" 

"Never mind, Flyboy, " he said, sighing. Sometimes the life-style of the men he worked with disturbed him. 

"F.F., whatever ... to further the cause ... I will do it." 

False-Face nodded. He had known that. 

*** 

Rex Tyler had driven through the night, letting Lee Munday sleep through a double shift. He was hoping to make himself tired enough so that he could rest no matter how much Lee talked. There were two rigs in convoy so far. The other two trucks were due to join them just outside Albuquerque. 

He smiled to himself as he read the sign: **Welcome to New Mexico -- Land of Enchantment. **

"Land of secret arsenals, where they make atomic bombs," he added aloud. He wondered how that would go over on a welcome sign. 

It was tedious driving slowly, but hauling poison gas meant slow driving. 

He felt down to his pocket, almost instinctively, for the small metal, hour-glass-looking container that carried some Miraclo pills. He always carried the pills -- just in case. 

He yawned, then glanced at his watch. 

He glanced at the watch again, having forgotten the time he'd read a moment earlier. 

He frowned, returning his gaze to the road. The sun was up, but that didn't quite make sense with the time on his watch. 

Then he remembered he had the watch set on Eastern Time, never bothering to change it in the Midwest. Now he was in the Mountain Time Zone. 

He put on his right turn signal to signify to the rest of the vehicles in the convoy that he was moving to the shoulder of the road. It was Lee's turn to drive. 

He turned to look at Lee. 

"You keep me awake this time," Rex said, "and I'll shoot you." 

But Lee just slept like a baby. 

*** 

"Hey, wake up, Mr Tyler!" 

Rex Tyler opened his eyes, looked at Lee Munday, blinked, then looked at him again. "Wha -- what?" He'd been sleeping, he realized. He needed sleep badly. He glanced at his watch. He'd been sleeping for less time than he wanted. "What is it, Lee?" he asked, his mouth feeling dry, hot. 

"I figured I'd let you know. We're turning off from Albuquerque." 

Rex sat up, rubbing his eyes. He found his porkpie hat and put it on. It was sunny. There were mountains to his right. To his left the land dropped sheer to the valley below. Wind socks were spaced at regular intervals along the highway. With each new gust, they grew stiff for an instant, then flaccid, then stiff again. Now ahead of their Military Police escort car were two trucks. 

He looked in the mirror on his right, not seeing much. He leaned to his left, craning his neck to get a view from Lee's side mirror. The other truck was there as it should be, as was its escort car. "Convoy's complete now," he muttered, his throat feeling dry and hoarse. 

"Yeah. We turn off two miles ahead toward the arsenal. Then we rest easy for a while before we head back to New York." 

Rex Tyler nodded, settling himself back in his seat. "I can use that all right." He shifted his butt on the seat. "Yeah, I can use that," he said again. 

He grunted, yawned, stretched, then closed his eyes. 

TO BE CONTINUED .... 

*** 

Come visit me and/or Chris Dee and the other fine writers at Gotham After Dark Message Board at: http://pub101.ezboard.com/bgothampm 


	11. Chapter 11

JSA: Atrocity 

By Bruce Wayne 

DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters portrayed in this story are copyright by DC Comics, an AOL/Time/Warner company. They are used without permission for entertainment without profit by the author. 

An Elseworld's story: Stories, situation or events involving familiar characters in unfamiliar settings. 

Chapter 11 

The driver handed over the identification card. 

The gate guard accepted it, studying it for a moment. Then he looked at the face of the man who had passed it to the driver. 

The general watched the guard, a corporal in the Military Police. His only visible armament was a .45 Government Model in a military flap holster on his right hip. 

The MP handed back the identity card, saluting. Then he asked, "May I be of assistance to the General, sir?" 

He cleared his throat. "No, son, just making an inspection. I have to drop in unexpectedly once in a while. Just open the gates and let us pass through as quietly as possible -- me and my inspection team." 

"Yes, sir. But I am supposed to contact Colonel Arden, sir." 

"Well, you go ahead and tell him Brigadier General Adam Franklin's here, then. If he wants, he can meet me down by the field, checking out your Air Cav readiness." 

"Very good, sir." The corporal saluted. 

He leaned forward over the backseat, a little closer to the driver. He nodded, giving a fast sharp salute. "I'll remember you in my report, Corporal." 

"Thank you, sir!" 

He nodded to his driver, his voice whiskey tinged and deep, said, "Phil, drive us on over to the field now." 

"Yes, General," the driver said. 

He watched as the gate swung open. The flags on the right and left front fenders stiffened as the car moved ahead. 

False-Face exhaled hard, saying to Flyboy, his driver, "The general's voice is a difficult one. He drinks too much. Or should I say, he drank too much." 

Billy Mason laughed. 

False-Face, without turning too much, glanced behind him. Two Jeeps loaded with men and another staff car brought up the rear. 

False-Face settled back, lighting one of General Adam Franklin's noxious-smelling cheap cigars. He inhaled hard to get the odor onto his breath, exhaling the smoke across the chest of his uniform blouse, then wrinkling his nose at it. As they drove the post streets, he noticed uniformed men and women stopping to salute. False-Face dutifully returned salutes lazily. 

The airfield would be another secure area. He puffed on the cigar again to keep the smell going as the car turned right. He looked ahead. The airfield gates were closed. Two MPs with M-1 rifles stood at the gate. 

The staff car slowed, then stopped. Flyboy hopped out, opening False-Face's door. False-Face stepped out, straightening his uniform tunic. The MPs stiffened, going to present arms. 

False-Face, inhaling his cigar, looked across at the men and returned the salute. "You men stand easy ... looking sharp, Phil," he said to Billy Mason, "show these soldiers my orders." False-Face turned away, and from the corner of his eye, he saw Flyboy produce the orders. 

False-Face surveyed the two Jeeps and the second staff car, looking beyond them across the base. Exhaling loudly, he said, "God I love Colorado weather. The air up here --" and he sucked loudly on his cigar "-- is worth breathin'. Not like at the Command School in Kansas. Air there smells like cowshit all the time." He turned and walked past Billy Mason and the two MPs. One of them was perusing the orders. 

He stopped at the gates, hooking his fingers on the chain link and staring across the field. Without looking back, he addressed the senior of the MPs by name -- he'd read the name tag. "Sergeant Cummins, think this here Air Cav outfit can stand a quick inspection and come out looking as sharp as you and that private?" He didn't glance back. 

"Yes, sir!" 

False-Face turned around. He extended his hand for the orders. "Good, then open the gates. And give Colonel Arden a call for me. Tell him to clear his calender for this afternoon. I'm buying him lunch." 

"Yes, sir." The sergeant snapped to a rifle salute at sling arms. False-Face returned the salute and took the orders back, handing them to Flyboy. False-Face started for the open back door of the staff car. He stepped inside, settling back and puffing on his cigar. Mason closed the door. 

The two MPs went to present arms again as Flyboy bounced into the front seat and put the transmission in drive. The staff car started forward. False-Face nodded to the MPs as the gates swung open. The car picked up speed, heading across the field. 

Ahead, False-Face could see the main hanger. "Drive that way, Billy, " he said in his own voice. 

"Yes, F.F., I mean General." Flyboy laughed again. 

The four vehicles drew up to the main hanger, and all the occupants stepped out. They entered the building. 

False-Face strode across the central space of the main hanger, followed by his other officers, all carrying clipboards. Each man in the "inspection team" also carried an attache case. False-Face inhaled, glancing up at the nearest of the Sikorsky helicopters. His eyes took in the small, three-man cockpit, the girderlike fuselage and the massive six-blade main rotors. 

Each selected pilot had flown this Sikorsky model. 

"Ascertain the readiness status of these aircraft, Colonel," False-Face said to the officer nearest him. His staff officer turned to the knot of ground-crew personnel standing at the far end of the hanger. 

"You, there, Sergeant!" 

"Sir!" The fatigue-clad sergeant started to run over. 

Colonel Arden had joined them and was now standing on False-Face's left. He nodded approvingly. "Your men get things going mighty quick, Colonel." 

"Thank you, General," the colonel said, smiling. 

"Four Sikorsky's and four Bell's. You've mustered them out quick, colonel." 

False-Face's men were already aboard each of the eight machines, inspecting flight readiness. The beating of the rotors sounded like a swarm of giant insects. 

False-Face turned to Arden, smiling then walked toward the hood of his staff car. He could feel Arden near him. 

"General, if I may ask, sir, why just these specific aircraft, sir? I mean, we could really show you --" 

False-Face had his attache case open. The silenced pistol was in his right fist as he turned around. He spoke in his own voice. "I'm a master criminal, Colonel, and these eight machines were all I required. Thank you, very much." 

The first round from the gun punched a neat hole between Colonel Arden's eyes just under the peak of his uniform cap. The cough of the silenced shot was inaudible over the beating of the rotor blades. The body fell backward. 

False-Face closed his briefcase, holding the silenced pistol against his right thigh as he started walking toward one of the Bell helicopters. 

Men were starting to move. False-Face heard a single shout. "It's the colonel --" 

Another, "Maybe it's a heart attack." 

After a moment there was a loud shout, louder than the rest. "Jesus -- Colonel Arden's been shot in the head!" 

False-Face smiled, turning around, dipping his head under the rotor blades. Flyboy rolled the body of the pilot out onto the airfield tarmac. 

An MP was fumbling for his .45 auto in its full-flap holster. False-Face raised the silenced pistol, aimed it leisurely as the MP worked the slide of the pistol to chamber a round so he could fire. False-Face fired first. 

Red splattered over the white scarf at the throat of the MPs uniform. The left hand clutched at the Adam's apple, which False-Face had used as a target. 

False-Face climbed aboard the Bell helicopter as Billy Mason began to work the stick. The rotor speed increased. Then the craft was airborne. 

False-Face looked right and left. The Sikorsky's were already lifting off, going low across the field away from the main hanger and the smaller hangers that made up the complex on the field. The Bell helicopters were also airborne now. False-Face reached across and snatched up the headset, pulling it on over his hat. "This is False-Face. initiate plan Alpha, initiate Alpha." Then he glanced at Flyboy, tapping him on the shoulder. 

Mason looked at False-Face as he signaled with his right thumb, jerking it upward. Flyboy nodded, smiling. His hat was gone, and his blond hair blew in his eyes from the healthy wind whipping into the cabin through the craft's open side door. 

The helicopter spun and climbed as Billy Mason thought about the next part of the plan. All the attache cases that the "inspection team" had carried, and the two staff cars contained bombs. The attache cases had been left behind. 

False-Face looked to Flyboy. Mason nodded, signifying that they were far enough away. False-Face took out an electronic device that looked like a garage door opener and pushed the large button. Suddenly the main hanger of the airbase erupted in a fireball of orange and yellow. A cloud of heat and fire scorched upward. Bombs also went off in the smaller hangers and other aircraft still on the ground. 

The hangers and helicopters were exploding. Men in full battle gear were running toward the helicopters. Pieces of bodies rained down as False-Face watched. 

One of the other Bell helicopters was streaking just above the ground toward the center of the compound, an M-60 firing from its open portside door at trucks moving out onto the field. The trucks were stopped. 

False-Face tapped Flyboy on the shoulder again. He signaled thumbs up again. Mason laughed, and the helicopter lurched to starboard. False-Face spoke on the radio, "Attack elements break off. Pick up and fly cover on the Sikorsky's. False-Face out." 

He looked at the chewed stump of General Franklin's cigar. Somehow it reminded him of Mrs Franklin's fingers after they tortured her to get information out of her husband. 

*** 

"F.F.," Flyboy said, speaking to False-Face through the headset. 

"Yes, Billy?" 

"They cannot help but hear us." 

"What should cause them to suspect military helicopters until it is too late?" 

"But what if the base -- Oh, I forgot ... the attack on the radio center and the headquarters." 

"It should take at least another half hour before anything formidable can be thrown up against us. And by then ..." False-Face let the sentence hang. 

"What if they contacted -- the convoy, I mean, F.F.?" 

False-Face, unbuttoning the blouse of his brigadier-general, shook his head. He stared through the canopy of the chopper at the small fleet around him. "The liklihood of such fast action is remote, exceedingly remote. And even if they expect us, what can they do? Turn around? Fight us? With what? Stop? For what? They can do nothing. Two drivers, alternating, in each vehicle. Eight all told. Two men in each of the two pilot cars for each truck. Another four men. Twenty-four men against eight helicopters -- four of which are heavily armed with M-60 machine guns -- and we have some grenades. What can they do, indeed? Take a chance on one of the containers carrying the VX gas to start leaking from an errant bullet? Poisoning the middle of New Mexico? Kill thousands of people? What can they do, Flyboy?" 

Billy had no answer. 

False-Face expected none. 

TO BE CONTINUED .... 

*** 

Come visit me and/or Chris Dee and the other fine writers at Gotham After Dark Message Board at: http://pub101.ezboard.com/bgothampm 


	12. Chapter 12

JSA: Atrocity   
  
By Bruce Wayne   
  
DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters portrayed in this story are copyright by DC Comics, an AOL/Time/Warner company. They are used without permission for entertainment without profit by the author.   
  
An Elseworld's story: Stories, situation or events involving familiar characters in unfamiliar settings.   
  
  
  
Chapter 12   
  
  
  
Dark silhouettes above the horizon were drawing Rex Tyler's attention. His gaze kept alternating between the road and the sky. "Hey, Lee? Lee!"   
  
Rex Tyler shot a glance to right. Lee was sound asleep. He took his right hand off the gearshift and slapped Lee across the left arm. "Lee. Dammit, Lee!"   
  
"What, huh?"   
  
Rex looked at him again. He was starting to wake up. With, Lee, Rex reflected, you could never be sure of anything, especially consciousness. "Lee, wake up, dammit!"   
  
"What?"   
  
"Lee, what the hell do those look like?"   
  
"What?"   
  
"Those," Rex insisted, freeing his right hand of the gear level again and thrusting his index finger skyward. "Those!"   
  
"They look like Army helicopters, maybe. Don't see many of those big crane-fitted cargo whirlybirds. Those are the big ones. I read once they can lift twenty tons or more. I don't know what the smaller ones are."   
  
Rex counted the praying-mantislike silhouettes, looming larger now. There were exactly four of them, flanked by four smaller helicopters. There were, he reasoned, exactly four trucks hauling VX nerve gas. Those big choppers could --   
  
"Holy cow," Rex whispered, his voice barely audible.   
  
The pilot car immediately in front of him exploded with holes and began to careen out of control. The occupants probably dead.   
  
Rex wrenched the wheel hard left, into the oncoming lane. The trailer behind him fishtailed wildly as he recovered the wheel. He upshifted to pick up speed, downshifting when it did no good, doubleclutching and downshifting again. Rex double-clutched and upshifted. The engine throbbed maddeningly loud. The engine's roar was more like a loud purr now as the rig shot past the shot up car that was now burning.   
  
Rex cut his wheel gently right, back into the righthand lane. The blazing automobile with two MPs inside was left behind. The smaller helicopters were closing fast. He wound the driver's-side window all the way down.   
  
Above the whirring of the rotor blades a German-accented voice was speaking on a public-address system. "On the road, nerve gas convoy, surrender now and you will be spared!"   
  
Rex sneered skyward.   
  
"Hey, Mr Tyler!"   
  
"Shut up, Lee," Rex shouted over the roar of the wind rushing past them. He focused his eyes on the road.   
  
The helicopters were zigzagging at treetop level through the sky overhead. The occupants were visible from time to time. Machine-gun fire ripped into the road just ahead of them, as if trying to force them to stop. He saw U.S. Army uniforms. He didn't believe it was possible.   
  
"Those are our guys up there!" Lee shouted.   
  
"Oh, yeah?" Rex sneered. "Then what the hell are they shooting at us for? And with what we're carrying!" He didn't wait for an answer but built his rpm on the tach. In the side mirror he saw an MP was leaning out of the window of the second pilot car, firing an M-1 skyward. Then the man, the M-1 and the car were chopped to pieces but numerous large-caliber bullets.   
  
The voice came from the air again. "This is your last warning. You must surrender now and no one will be harmed!"   
  
"That no good son of a ...!" Rex shouted. He threw his arm out the window of the cab, made a fist, and then extended his middle finger at the smallest of the four attacking helicopters that was coming in for a close pass. The German-accented voice on the PA system said, "You, I will kill!"   
  
Rex stomped down harder on the accelerator. He caught a glimpse of a yellow road sign showing an S-curve ahead. "Aw, great! Just what I don't need."   
  
He started downshifting. The S-curve sign had been posted 35 mph. There was a roar of engine noise to his left, and he snapped his head to see what it was. The second of the trucks, the cab scorched and the relief driver hanging out the side window, was coming fast.   
  
"Hey, what happened to Mark?" Lee shouted.   
  
"He's dead, you idiot," Rex shouted back. The truck cab was weaving from right to left. The cab's right fender crunched the trailer that Rex was pulling.   
  
"What?" It was Lee again. "Must be something wrong with Tom, too!"   
  
The truck was coming faster now into the curve, and the cab was almost dead even with Rex as he looked out. He could see Tom, the driver, with one hand on the steering wheel, the other hand over his eyes.   
  
"Lee, slide over when I jump out. I'm going to help Tom," Rex shouted. He moved his right hand to the stick, double-clutching and downshifting. The two cabs were even now as he glanced left. "Take her, Lee!"   
  
Rex worked the door handle, stepping out onto the elevated running-board steps. His right hand still gripped the wheel. Then he felt Lee take it. He let go, glancing down. If he missed, the wheels of one of the trucks would get him.   
  
He reached out his left arm. His right hand was anchored to the doorframe. His left hand groped for the right side mirror of the other truck. He was not close enough. "Lee," he shouted. "Get me closer, then pull away and slow her down when I jump!"   
  
"You might get yourself killed, Mr Tyler!"   
  
"No kidding!" Rex shouted back, extending his left arm as far as it would go. He felt his balance shift as Lee steered closer to the second cab. "Now or never," he coached himself. Letting go of the driver's-side door, he jumped.   
  
He hadn't jumped far enough, he realized, as his left hand slipped. His right hand groped for the frame of the mirror as he felt himself being pulled away in the slipstream. Then his right fist closed on it, and the frame of the mirror sagged under his one hundred eighty pounds. His left hand reached out -- for anything except the vertical exhaust pipe that traveled up the side of the cab behind the doorframe. It would be too hot to touch, let alone hold.   
  
He threw his body left and in toward the fuel tank. His booted feet dragged for an instant. A spare wheel was wired down just forward of the fifth-wheel connection. He groped for the spare wheel with his left hand. He let go of the broken mirror framework as his left found the rim of the wheel.   
  
Struggling, he pulled himself across the fuel tank toward the driver's side. Heat from the engine blasted him as he fought to gain his footing. Then his feet found the framework leading to the fifth wheel, and his hands were on the cab roof.   
  
He could see Tom now with the steering wheel still held in one hand. Tom was screaming, rubbing his eyes.   
  
The windshield in front of the driver was shattered, blown inward.   
  
Sweat poured off Rex as he reached his hand up across the cab roof to the air horn. He grabbed at it, tugging firmly. It held. He moved his right hand down from the air horn to the door handle. "Tom. slide over, I'm coming in!" Rex shouted. Tom still screamed.   
  
Rex wrenched at the door handle. The door sprung open, and he swung out with it as he lost his footing. His body was suspended over the road. He looked down. Suddenly there was no road, just a sheer drop down the valley. His left arm was hooked through the window opening, while his right hand swatted at the top of the doorframe, trying to get a grip. Then he had it. With his left leg he kicked out at the body of the cab, trying to close the driver's door partially.   
  
More gunfire came from overhead, strafing the highway around him. He glared upward, then kicked again. The door started to swing shut with the force of the slipstream.   
  
His right hand grabbed the assist handle beside the doorframe, and he wrenched the door handle once more. The door flew back as he kicked it open. Tom had both hands over his eyes as he fell out the door screaming, "I wanna die!"   
  
Rex hung there for an instant, shouting, "No, Tom, no!" But Tom had disappeared over the cliff.   
  
The rig was zigzagging badly now as Rex threw himself inside. His left hand snaked out to find the wheel even before he was seated upright. He straightened himself, finding the pedals with his feet. Staring ahead, his jaw dropped -- he was into the S-curve.   
  
Rex glanced at his right side mirror. It was darkened and soot stained, but he could see Lee's rig slowing. Then it was gone from view as Rex cut the wheel into the first turn. He started downshifting, building engine compression to slow himself, working the brakes. The air brakes hissed madly.   
  
One of the helicopters, its machine gun firing from the open door on the left, was dipping toward him. He cut the wheel farther right, getting into the center of the highway. His speedometer still hovered near fifty. The trailer behind him whipped from side to side, crashing and dragging against the rocks on the right.   
  
The gun in the chopper fired a burst across the hood. Rex ducked, wrenching the wheel involuntarily. But the rocks were coming up too fast. He tugged at the steering wheel -- it wasn't responding fast enough. He stomped his right foot on the brake pedal and threw himself down on the floor as he tried to remember a prayer.   
  
  
  
TO BE CONTINUED ....   
  
  
  
***   
  
Come visit me and/or Chris Dee and the other fine writers at Gotham After   
Dark Message Board at: http://pub101.ezboard.com/bgothampm 


	13. Chapter 13

JSA: Atrocity 

By Bruce Wayne 

DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters portrayed in this story are copyright by DC Comics, an AOL/Time/Warner company. They are used without permission for entertainment without profit by the author. 

An Elseworld's story: Stories, situation or events involving familiar characters in unfamiliar settings. 

Chapter 13 

False-Face, lazily holding a silenced pistol in his right hand stepped closer to Flyboy. "That is the one," he said to the pilot, gesturing with the gun toward the man being dragged by two other men. "I can feel it. The one who made that --" 

"Obscene gesture toward you," Billy ended it for him. 

"Yes, that disgusting gesture," False-Face said, laughing. 

Then False-Face looked at the others. A blond-haired man who had been riding alone in one of the trucks appeared frightened. False-Face had made the MPs toss their guns in a pile on the ground. 

"Throw him over there," False-Face ordered the two men carrying the third. They dragged the man toward the other prisoners, then heaved him forward. He fell to his knees, blood trickling from a wound on the right temple. 

False-Face walked toward the pile of weapons, then stopped. He watched as the first of the Sikorsky sky cranes, with a semi-trailer secured, lifted off. 

One of the two men who had dragged the third presented False-Face with an automatic pistol. 

False-Face glanced at it -- a Colt .45. Then he looked up as a second Sikorsky moved off with one of the trailers on its crane. 

He weighed the Colt in his left hand, then crouched, setting the pistol down. He examined some of the other guns, finally selecting one from the pile. "A .44 Magnum. Whose is this?" False-Face asked, rising to his feet. He stuffed the silenced pistol into his trouser band under the webbed belt, shifting the nickel-plated .44 into his right hand. "I asked, whose is this?" 

The blond-haired man who'd driven alone stepped forward, smiling. "Er, that's mine, sir." 

"Hmmm," False-Face smiled. He aimed the revolver at a tree trunk. "Does it kick much?" 

"Like a mule if you're not used to it," the man volunteered. 

"Interesting," False-Face said, appreciating the advice. Then he swung the muzzle toward the man, double-actioning the revolver. The big Magnum bucked hard in his right hand. The blond-haired man's face exploded, and his body sprawled back against some rocks. 

"He was right, you know," False-Face said to Flyboy. Mason laughed. 

"You son of a --!" screamed a voice from behind False-Face. False-Face turned back to the group of men. The one who had been dragged in was struggling on his knees. Two of his trucker friends were trying to hold him back. The dark-haired man shifted his body weight, and one of the truckers flew forward, sprawling. The kneeling man shifted his weight again, flipping the second man. He was on his feet now, charging forward. False-Face heard the clicking of safeties on M-1s held by his men. 

False-Face raised the .44 cocking it. He pointed it at the approaching man. "Yes?" 

The man stopped his charge, standing halfway between the knot of drivers and False-Face, nearly even with the pile of guns. 

"You are the one I want," False-Face said, smiling. "What is your name?" 

The man said nothing. 

False-Face shifted the muzzle to one of the truckers. "I will shoot this man unless you answer me." 

"Rex, Rex Tyler. T-Y-L-E-R." 

_Rex Tyler! What a name," False-Face laughed. "Sounds like a name for a dog!" Flyboy laughed. False-Face looked back to Rex Tyler. "And __Rex --" he growled the name "-- what do you plan to do, jump me and throttle me to death or steal a gun and start shooting?" _

The man cleared his throat. "You're going to .. kill --" 

"All of you?" False-Face asked. "YES! Of course! How perceptive of you. But you can make it more sporting. Jump for a gun, why don't you? Who knows, you might make it in time, hmmm?" 

The last of the Sikorsky sky cranes was airborne now. It was time to start the executions, to stop playing games, False-Face thought. "I'm weary of this." He raised the muzzle of the Magnum. "I must release the first of that VX gas in a most poetic place." 

He pointed the gun at Rex's head. "You shall be first, _Rex!" _

"Wait!" Rex cried out. His hands were raised, palms outward as a sign of resignation. 

"Yes?" False-Face asked, smiling. 

"Can I at least take an aspirin before you shoot me?" Rex asked. "I would imagine that it is quite painful." 

False-Face burst out laughing hysterically. "An aspirin?!" he screamed, almost choking. "An aspirin?" 

Billy Mason and many of False-Face's minions were also laughing. 

False-Face laughed so hard that he had to look away from Rex. After coughing a few times, he snorted, and then said in a sarcastic voice, "Oh, why not? If you think an aspirin is going to help ease the pain of bullet smashing into your head -- why should I deny a man his last request? Go ahead and take your aspirin, _Rex." _

Tyler just nodded and moved his hands slowly to pull out his pill box that contained his Miraclo pills. He gently opened the container and slipped one of the pills out. 

False-Face continued to watch in amusement. 

With the small white pill in the fingers of his right hand, Rex placed the pill in his mouth. He then asked in a humble voice, "Could I trouble you for some water?" 

"WATER?!" False-Face screamed and started another fit of laughter. After a few moments of chuckling, he coughed again and said, "Oh, _Rex, I must say it will be a pleasure to kill you. You are the most amusing man I ever murdered." _

The few moments of laughter gave the fast-acting Miraclo pill the vital seconds it needed to activate in Rex Tyler's system. 

False-Face pointed the gun at Rex again. "Good-bye, _Rex," he growled. _

Instead of jumping for a gun, the man named Rex dived with amazing speed to his left, grabbing one of False-Face's fatigue-clad men. His speed caught the man off guard, hurling him with incredible strength toward False-Face. False-Face barely managed to dodge left, his finger squeezing the trigger of the .44 Magnum. The gun bucked hard in his right hand. False-Face lost his balance, stumbling as the body of his man slammed into him. 

He threw down the Magnum, grabbing instead for the silenced pistol in his belt. He looked up to see Rex Tyler running with spectacular speed. False-Face raised the pistol and aimed. It would be a perfect shot if Rex would only stand still long enough. 

Tyler ducked as rifle fire hammered into the rocks above him. Even though the Miraclo pill gave his body increased resistance to pain or physical harm, it didn't make him invulnerable like Superman. 

Stone chips flew at him. One hit his right hand, which protected his face. 

He rolled to the left and sat up, leaning his back against a huge boulder. Then he stood up and peered over the rock ledge. 

He could see the group of men lined up beside the rocks. They were being executed. 

Rex cried out, "NO!" 

He immediately moved into action without regard of what harm may come to him. With unbelivable speed, he ran to and slammed into the men who were killing the truckers. He punched one opponent unconscious and then injured at least two more with mighty blows. More rifle fire peppered the rocks near him. He ducked again as a movement to his left caught his attention. 

Rex dived out of the way as more shots came his way. 

The helicopters' rotor beat was increasing. He knew that the killers and thieves would probably escape. He was up and running. The rotor sounds were becoming louder still. 

"Aw, jeez!" 

Rex looked skyward. The helicopters were airborne and coming after him. 

Tyler began to run into a nearby grove of trees. He swatted his way through the trees, dodging low-hanging branches. 

Suddenly Rex heard the staccato of an M-60 machine gun. The ground to his right was being torn up by the big bullets. 

Rex threw himself forward. He tried to cover his head with his hands, burrowing his face in the dirt as gravel rained down on him. He quickly got up and was running again in a matter of seconds. 

More machine-gun bullets chewed the ground around him. Branches were sawn away and came crashing down toward him. Rex zigzagged through the trees, running for his life. 

He glanced up behind him. One of the Bell helicopters was skimming the treetops, sweeping toward him. A gunner was leaning out of the door, firing an M-60. Rex picked up a good size rock that probably weighed a pound. With his amazing strength, he threw the rock and hit the gunner. The man flopped forward, strung out across the M-60 as the chopper buzzed overhead and was gone. 

Rex began to run again. Tyler heard the beat of the rotor blades again and looked up. It was another Bell whirlybird. That meant more machine-gun bullets headed his way. 

The ground to his left dropped off suddenly. Rex angled himself toward it, still running. There was a wide, swiftly flowing river below the sheer drop. He glanced back as he ran. 

The sinister-looking helicopter was coming at him slowly, almost leisurely. 

He could see the edge of the drop. He looked behind him again. He could hear the M-60 firing. 

Rex launched his body forward into space. The water rushed up to meet him. He hit the water. Rex broke the surface. His eyes closed involuntarily, then opened again. He dived again as a rain of gravel pelted at him. 

Confused, he swam aimlessly, hearing popping noises as the machine gun strafed the water about him. He kept down, the Miraclo pill giving him the ability to stay underwater much longer than the average person. Then his feet touched bottom as the riverbank rose in front of him. 

Rex dragged himself up the side. He fell forward onto the sand, rolling onto his back. He squinted skyward against the brightness. 

The helicopters were breaking off. Rex reasoned that they had something to guard -- probably the stolen VX nerve gas. He could se the helicopters traveling along the length of the river, then rising. The Sikorsky sky-crane choppers looked like huge black insects against the blue cloudlessness of the New Mexico sky. 

*** 

Rex Tyler's leather jacket hung on the back of a chair, drying. He looked out the sliding glass door of a motel room now. On the table beside him was a bottle of beer. 

He had contacted the state police and the FBI immediately upon reaching the motel in Albuquerque. In both cases he did so anonymously, hanging up quickly. It would be too difficult to explain how he had managed to survive being executed by that villian and his mob. 

He sat now, trying to piece things together. 

One hundred containers of VX nerve gas were now in the hands of some evil people. 

Rex knew that if the Army and the FBI even believed him -- that he was the only survivor because he just was able to run and evade heavily armed men in helicopters after they stole a huge amount of some of the most potent chemicals on earth ... they'd throw him in the slammer, anyway, to keep his mouth shut. 

He expected those killers would come after him because it was obvious what they were planning to do. Either use the VX or charge a ransom -- maybe both. 

He looked back out the window, thinking to himself, _"This is great, just great. I'm a respected industrialist from New York and I'm wanted by the government and a pack of killers." _

This was too big for one man to handle. Even though he was as strong as he ever was, the Man of the Hour still needed help. 

He had to go after those nerve gas hijackers. And yes, he wanted to bring those killers to justice. But Rex wasn't sure where to start. 

Rex stood up and checked his watch. He picked up the telephone on the motel room's dresser and brought it back to the small table, setting it down. 

"I know just the people to help me," he said out loud to himself. 

He knew he needed his friends from the Justice Society of America. If this wasn't a case for them to handle -- what was? 

Rex picked up the phone. He always wound up memorizing phone numbers, even when he didn't try. His mind was just able to always remember numbers. It was a number he had never tried before. It was a special number. 

In New York City, Dr Charles McNider answered Rex Tyler's call. 

TO BE CONTINUED .... 

*** 

Come visit me and/or Chris Dee and the other fine writers at Gotham After Dark Message Board at: http://pub101.ezboard.com/bgothampm 


	14. Chapter 14

JSA: Atrocity  
  
By Bruce Wayne  
  
DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters portrayed in this story are copyright by DC Comics, an AOL/Time/Warner company. They are used without permission for entertainment without profit by the author.  
  
An Elseworld's story: Stories, situation or events involving familiar characters in unfamiliar settings.  
  
  
Chapter 14  
  
  
The Atom hammered his fist into the wall of the meeting room in the headquarters of the Justice Society of America. "Dammit!" He looked to Dr Mid-Nite then at Hawkman. He looked at Mid-Nite longer. "They what?"  
  
Dr Mid-Nite smiled sheepishly. "Bunch of criminals stole eight helicopters. Four of them were those big monster-sized cargo jobs. Everybody swears one of the men was a well-known brigadier general named Franklin. Anyway --"  
  
The Atom cut him off. He walked to the other side of the room. "They just waltzed right into a goddamn Army base and stole eight helicopters, then took a nice little flight a hundred miles or so --"  
  
"One hundred eighteen miles," Hawkman told him.  
  
"Right," The Atom said, turning to look at his fellow crimefighter. "Took this little one-hundred-eighteen-mile junket and just bodily picked up four trucks."  
  
He turned around again, stopping his pacing.Then he shrugged. "So a gang of thieves led by a U.S. Army general stole four truckloads of VX nerve gas. Enough nerve gas to effectively, let's see now ..."  
  
"Wipe out half the country, Atom," Hawkman volunteered.  
  
"Right," The Atom said again, raising the index finger of his right hand, jabbing it skyward, then staring down at his red boots. "Right. Enough deadly nerve gas to kill every living man, woman, and child in New York, Gotham City, Washington, Gateway City, Los Angeles -- whole bunch of places."  
  
The Atom laughed. Then he wheeled half left, his right fist punching out into the wall again. His knuckles ached as he made contact, snapping his hand back. "Damn!" He screamed the word. "If Khrushchev and Ruskies find out we have have so much VX nerve gas missing, who knows? Maybe they'll start an attack." His voice rose and fell. "So what have we got? Seven dead truckers or whatever. Eight dead Military Policemen. Rex almost getting himself killed. And we got nerve gas in the hands of a bunch of killers led by a U.S. Army general."  
  
"According to one of the survivors at the base, Atom, well --"  
  
"What?" he snarled, turning to Dr Mid-Nite.  
  
"Well, the man swore the general took a pistol with a silencer and shot the base commander in the head, Colonel Arden." He closed his notebook with a loud slapping sound.  
  
"Oh, goody. We wouldn't want a rogue general who does things halfheartedly, now would we? No, much better this way. Every damn crook --" and he spoke slowly, spacing his words now "-- in the whole world is going to go after that nerve gas. Every petty dictator -- instant destruction available on a grand scale. And then we're supposed to go find it. Don't alert the press, don't alert the local cops. Just us go after four truckloads of VX nerve gas!" He shook his head. His fist still hurt from the last time, but he hammered it into the wall once more.  
  
It hurt again.  
  
The JSA headquarters was located in an old mansion in Queens, New York, that was close to and had easy access to the growing Idlewild Airport.  
  
Hawkman turned to Dr Mid-Nite. "How soon until the others make it, here?"  
  
"Shouldn't be long," Mid-Nite replied. "Green Lantern went to pick Hourman up in New Mexico. Batman and Wonder Woman will be flying in with their planes. I expect Wildcat, Spectre and Sandman at any moment. The rest are currently working on their own urgent cases. In fact, Green Lantern won't be able to stay. International narcotics, you know."  
  
The Atom sniffed. "Are a few pounds of heroin more important than the fate of the world?"  
  
Hawkman looked to The Atom. "They'll be enough of us to start the investigation. If we need more help, we can call for it."  
  
"Sounds to me like we're going to need all the help we can get," Atom replied sarcastically.  
  
  
***  
  
  
On the East Side of Manhattan, Wesley Dodds walked out the back door of his large, three-story, stone home to his complex at the rear of his property. Dodds lived on a corner of a busy street in a commercial section of Manhattan. Facing the street was a rather nice home. To the rear was a mish-mash complex of interconnected buildings that appeared to be an abandoned auto repair shop. The corner complex was laid out in an L-shaped pattern. A driveway off the side street on the dark corner was the entrance to the old repair shop.  
  
Dodds walked to the side door of the nearest building and with a special key, turned off the alarm system. With another key, he opened one lock and then used, yet, a third key to open one more lock.  
  
Inside the complex of buildings was the headquarters, workshops, laboratories, storerooms and garage of The Sandman.  
  
Dodds flipped a light switch and a dim light lit the room. He walked into another room and began to dress in a green business suit. After the suit was on, he whipped a long purple cape over his shoulders and fastened it at the neck. Next, he put on an ominous-looking gas mask that covered his face. To top off the costume, he placed an orange fedora hat on his head.  
  
He walked out of his costume room and moved through his crime laboratory and store room. He entered his garage where his hi-tech Sandmobile was located. Sliding into the driver's seat, the Sandman started the vehicle and the powerful engine rumbled to life.  
  
He pushed a button on the dashboard and the large, brown garage door started to rise. Putting the car into gear, the Sandman quickly exited his headquarters and was on his way to meet with his JSA counterparts.  
  
Within minutes he was speeding through the Queens-Midtown Tunnel. The noise inside the tunnel was deafening as the Sandmobile screamed on its way eastward.  
  
Sometime later at the JSA headquarters, there was a car at the gates beeping its horn.  
  
"Who's that?" The Atom asked, peering through the curtains.  
  
Though he could see in the dark as easily as anyone could see in light, Dr Mid-Nite was unable to see inside of the vehicle, but he knew who it was anyhow. Mid-Nite smiled. "It's Sandman," he answered. He then went to the panel beside the front door to activate the gate-opening device.  
  
  
***  
  
  
False-Face had known that once the theft of the helicopters was connected to the theft of the VX nerve gas, the fuel range would be calculated in order to set up a preliminary search area. He had planned ahead for that, refueling the helicopters prior to the theft of the nerve gas, then proceeding.  
  
After the VX nerve gas had been deposited at a chosen site, the aircraft were flown back into the search area. They landed at a point to make it appear as if lack of fuel made the landing necessary.  
  
Trucks loaded with with sandbags of the same weight as the nerve gas in their containers were waiting there. The trucks were driven to a desert area where the sand was carefully scattered. Once they reached a highway where their tracks could not be followed, the trucks returned to their point of origin.  
  
False-Face, still disguised as General Franklin so none of his men would see his face and know his true appearance, stood now at the entrance to the sole hanger on the abandoned country airfield. He was immediately pleased with himself as he finished reviewing the beautiful simplcity and genius of his planning.  
  
Flyboy was standing beside him, saying, "You have done it again, F.F."  
  
"Yes, I have," False-Face agreed. Then the corners of his mouth turned down. "Except for that man who --"  
  
"Made that obscene gesture to you," Billy Mason put in.  
  
"Yes," False-Face said. "I hope we killed him. But -- I think he got away from us, Flyboy."  
  
False-Face started to walk down the center of the hanger. His men, more than a dozen of them, were already at work, repacking the nerve gas into other disguised containers. The work was under the personal supervision of The Boomer.  
  
The Boomer looked up as False-Face passed him. False-Face waved, and Boomer called out, "If I wanted to work this hard, I could have got a steady job in a defense plant." The Boomer laughed.  
  
False-Face walked on. "Does he know anything, that man who escaped. Did we say anything?" Billy Mason asked.  
  
"Nothing he could use. I made a vague reference to the site I have chosen as our first target, but I doubt he understood me. He was more concerned about dying or escaping at the time, I'm sure. At any rate, it was such a slender clue. Even if it was properly understood, it would be -- the American expression best serves -- like looking for a pin in a haystack. And by the time we first use the nerve gas, many of these canisters will be out of the country."  
  
"But how?"  
  
"Relief supplies for underdeveloped African nations. Medicine, typewriters, medical-analysis equipment and some other things," he added, deciding he had said enough.  
  
"But surely customs will --"  
  
"No, they won't. And several of the nerve gas canisters will stay here, of course."  
  
"But what do you plan to ... what --"  
  
"To restore the glory, to obliterate all enemies, to seize and hold supreme power, and these --" False-Face gestured expansively to the canisters containing the VX nerve gas "-- these are the means, the keys to the kingdom, as it were."  
  
"I don't understand," Billy Mason began. He reached out to touch False-Face's right forearm with his left hand, but False-Face moved his arm away, smiling.  
  
"You are not supposed to -- to understand it all."  
  
"But you will use all this nerve gas?"  
  
"No, unless, of course, that becomes necessary. Then I would without compunction. But, no, the early use of the gas will just show the world governments of my sincerity."  
  
"But --"  
  
"Flyboy, dear Flyboy. The United States can tell no one this nerve gas has been stolen. Perhaps a handful of their agents will pursue me, but they do not even know it is me. They cannot trust the security of their allies. One leak and a possible attack from the Soviet Union. Certainly a war-alert status, DEFCON three or better --"  
  
"DEFCON?"  
  
"Defense Condition. DEFCON Five is war itself. But they can tell no one. What do the American fools tell their friends in Europe? Somebody stole four truckloads of VX nerve gas? 'We are sorry, but we promise not to let it happen again?' I doubt they can say anything. They cannot stop us, and soon they will realize that. And when I make my demands, they will agree. Or every living thing on the planet will perish."  
  
"You really ... would use the nerve gas?"  
  
False-Face stopped walking, turning to look at Billy Mason. "Of course, Flyboy, of course."  
  
  
  
TO BE CONTINUED ....  
  
  
***  
  
Come visit me and/or Chris Dee and the other fine writers at Gotham After Dark Message Board at: http://pub101.ezboard.com/bgothampm 


	15. Chapter 15

JSA: Atrocity  
  
By Bruce Wayne  
  
DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters portrayed in this story are copyright by DC Comics, an AOL/Time/Warner company. They are used without permission for entertainment without profit   
by the author.  
  
An Elseworld's story: Stories, situation or events involving familiar characters in unfamiliar settings.  
  
  
Chapter 15  
  
  
"So is what I hear through intelligence channels true?" Wonder Woman asked. She was sitting at the large round table in the main meeting room of the Justice Society of America headquarters.  
  
"Want a sandwich?" Sandman asked.  
  
"No, thank you, Sandman, but a glass of water would do nicely," she answered. Wonder Woman was used to the attention her male counterparts gave her. Batwoman and Hawkgirl were never amused by the drooling of some of the mystery men in the room gave to Diana.  
  
"I'll get it!" The Atom swiftly rose to fill Wonder Woman's request.  
  
Sandman watched as The Atom's chair almost tipped over because he had moved so quickly. "Let me open with a question since I've been somewhat filled in -- what would be the problems if VX nerve gas were released in a major city?"  
  
"Good God, man, don't even think such a thing," Wildcat said.  
  
"What would happen?" Sandman pressed for an answer.  
  
The best qualified person in the room to answer the question, Hourman, began, "Let's say Manhattan, with Grand Central Station being where the gas was released. Potential of millions of lives lost. It would be staggering."  
  
"I think this qualifies as a case the JSA should handle," Hawkman quipped.  
  
"Indeed, it does," agreed the Caped Crusader from Gotham City.  
  
The Spectre asked Wildcat, "I heard that you ran into a bit of trouble a few days ago."  
  
"The other night. Some hitmen ambushed me. They obviously failed. One was killed.  
  
"Good show," said Dr Mid-Nite. "All right, can we get started?"  
  
Hourman spoke up, "Yes, as you all surely know by now, a gang of highly sophisticated and deadly thieves stole one hundred containers of VX nerve gas from a convoy that I was leading from Tyler Chemicals. We can all imagine what such chemicals are capable of."  
  
"Wonder Woman, how much muscle would you have with the U.S. government, if you needed it? Really needed it?" Wildcat asked.  
  
"Quite a bit, actually. If it were so required to push, I might be able to convince certain policymakers -- high up -- to go along with us," she replied.  
  
Batwoman and Hawkgirl looked at one another with raised eyebrows, if they could had been seen through their masks.  
  
Wonder Woman continued, "I could convince my high sources to lean considerable influence in other countries, as well, should we need it. What is all of this leading uo to?" She took a sip from the glass of water that The Atom had brought her and smiled to her colleague.  
  
The Atom merely nodded in acknowldegement.  
  
"What's it all leading up to?" Batman repeated.  
  
"Yes," Wonder Woman said. "Do we have a plan of action?"  
  
"Before we get into a plan of action, I hope you all remember that telegram that I sent a few days ago," the Caped Crusader said. "We weren't able, for some reason to get together to discuss my suspicions."  
  
"You always have suspicions, cowled one," The Spectre boomed out.  
  
Batman nodded. "Yes, but I learned that a past enemy of mine, the European criminal known as False-Face, was able to free another well-known criminal from German custody who goes by the name of The Boomer. The Boomer is an expert in bombs and ... chemicals. Some of the pieces fit, but I can't tell you one hundred percent if it was them who stole the nerve gas."  
  
"Well, what's this False-Face look like? Maybe I can tell you if it fits the guy I saw," Hourman asked.  
  
"That's the problem," Batwoman answered. "Nobody knows what he looks like. He's the ultimate master of disguise."  
  
Sandman looked around the room wondering if False-Face could even impersonate one of his fellow crimefighters.  
  
There had been a long silence in the room. Wonder Woman continued sipping at her glass of water and then finally said, "I agree with what was previously said. The United States will not tell her allies -- at least nothing in detail. The news will be blacked out. The fact that Hourman is still alive, though they don't know it was Hourman, the FBI won't like that one bit."  
  
"Can you pull their plug?" Batman asked.  
  
Wonder Woman looked up. "I'm sorry?"  
  
"Can you pull the plug on the Feds?" The Atom interrupted. "Can you get us a free hand to investigate this case?"  
  
Wonder Woman seemed to think for a moment, then said, "I can -- all of that. But don't expect any help. They'll resent our knowing, our interfering. They'll not aid us."  
  
"Us," The Atom repeated.  
  
"Us," Wonder Woman emphasized. "I've come to another conclusion. With all of us in the field, there'll be arrangement to be made, egos to smooth, feathers to unruffle. Coordination -- that'll be my job. And we could start doing our jobs if we only could agree on where to begin. Somehow we have to stop those vicious criminals from using that nerve gas."  
  
Hourman glanced at the clock.  
  
"By now, I'd say at least some of the VX is on its way out of the country. We can't stop that," the Man of the Hour said. "What interests me most is where they might use the nerve gas first --"  
  
"You really believe they'll use it?" Hawkman interrupted, sitting forward in his chair because of the large wings on his back.  
  
Hourman spoke. "He said --"  
  
"Who?" Dr Mid-Nite asked.  
  
"General Franklin or whoever the hell it was."  
  
"I think it was False-Face," Batman said.  
  
"You truly believe it was this master of disguise, Dark one?" The Spectre inquired.  
  
"Yes," the Masked Manhunter from Gotham replied. "He is a known right-wing fanatic. A man of the highest competency level. Not to sound trite, but he truly is a master of disguise. I'd say we'll find out shortly that General Franklin was murdred and False-Face substituted for him." Batman cleared his throat and looked back to Hourman. "But you were saying about General Franklin -- or whoever?"  
  
"I was saying," Hourman went on, "that when he was holding a gun on me --"  
  
The Spectre watched as Hourman continued, staring off into space as he recounted what happened.  
  
"He said something about a poetic place -- the first use of the gas would be used in the most poetic place."  
  
"Gateway City," Batman told him quietly.  
  
"Gateway City?" Dr Mid-Nite murmured.  
  
"Depending on what False-Face meant," the Caped Crusader explained. "If it was False-Face, and I believe it probably was, the one poetic place in the country is Gateway City. It's on the ocean, it has fog, nightlife and ... the bridge. He'd want to hit America's jugular. It's also one of the largest cities in the United States."  
  
"We could give that information to the FBI," Hourman said halfheartedly.  
  
"Let's," Sandman told him. "But not for thirty-six hours. That will give us twelve hours to get some sleep, then get to Gateway City. Then twenty-four hours to get the ball rolling there. Who knows? Maybe if we need them down the line we can get their help."  
  
"Agreed," the Man of the Hour murmured. He then looked to Wonder Woman. "Diana, you just got started as coordinator. You'll need to stay here and act as liason between us and the U.S. government."  
  
"All right, but --"  
  
"We'll sack out here," Sandman interrupted, glancing at his watch. It was nearly one in the morning. "You have four hours to rest, Diana, then get on the phone. Make your plug-pulling calls first. Then we can put through the other ones and not care who's listening."  
  
"I think it would be best if I went back to Washington and did this coordination at the highest level --" Wonder Woman started.  
  
Batwoman and Hawkgirl looked at one another again.  
  
"-- in person," she explained. "I may need to be able to persuade my sources in person."  
  
The two other female crimefighters in the room almost snorted.  
  
Wonder Woman added, "I have my invisible plane at the airport nearby. I can be back in Washington in less than four hours."  
  
"Good," The Spectre said. "I, too, shall leave and return to Gateway City to prepare for your arrivals. I do not require sleep."  
  
The Atom looked at The Spectre, then at Wonder Woman, "Later, guys. Time for some shut-eye."  
  
Batman started across the room, then turned to The Spectre. "When I make it out to Gateway City, I'll look up Mr Terrific."  
  
"You believe that he may be of assistance?' The Spectre asked.  
  
"He's an old rival crimefighter who might help -- depends on his mood,"  
the Caped Crusader replied. "But we're going to need all the help we can get on this one."  
  
  
  
TO BE CONTINUED ....  
  
  
***  
  
Come visit me and/or Chris Dee and the other fine writers at Gotham After Dark Message Board at: http://pub101.ezboard.com/bgothampm 


	16. Chapter 16

JSA: Atrocity  
  
By Bruce Wayne  
  
DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters portrayed in this story are copyright by DC Comics, an AOL/Time/Warner company. They are used without permission for entertainment without profit   
by the author.  
  
An Elseworld's story: Stories, situation or events involving familiar characters in unfamiliar settings.  
  
  
Chapter 16  
  
  
The Korean Veteran Social Club was a relatively new organization that was located on East Forty-seventh Street in Gateway City. The club had recently popped up in the previous few months and had advertised heavily for members. It offered members a bar, a small grill for meals, and recreational actvities such as a gym and martial arts training.  
  
Sandman had concluded in his mind that the assault on the VX nerve gas convoy had been conducted with a high degree of military precision. The helicopter pilots had to be rated to fly very specialized aircraft. Where would a criminal mastermind be able to recruit such minions?   
  
During an investigation of organizations that catered to war veterans, Sandman zeroed in on the Korean Veteran Social club. The headquarters were on the second floor of a three-story building. On the third-floor was the gym and the first floor was a karate school, both run by the social club.  
  
With the help of the Spectre's considerable powers, the Sandmobile had been transported to Gateway City. Sitting beside Sandman, in the passenger's seat, was Wildcat.   
  
It was dark and the Sandmobile was parked across the street from the social club. Wildcat looked across the street, then at Sandman.  
  
"You sure we want to mess with these guys?" Wildcat asked. "After all, they're veterans' -- they served their country."  
  
"You have a better idea of where False-Face might recruit highly-trained personnel to carry out a precision, military-style raid? Just relax --"  
  
"Relax my --"   
  
Sandman interrupted him, "We'll just go inside and take a look around."  
  
"What do you plan to do, inside? I mean, take karate lessons or try out the gym?"  
  
"Neither." Sandman said with amusement in his voice that could be heard through the gas mask that he wore. "We're just going to talk to the person in charge."  
  
Wildcat doubled forward, laughing. "We waltz in dressed like this and you think they'll just talk to us?"  
  
"I don't think talk like that is at all constructive, Wildcat."  
  
Wildcat looked at his partner for the evening. "Sandman, there's probably a large number of relatively young, former service personnel in that building right now. Probably a lot of them are getting tanked in the bar. And here come two guys -- one in a business suit wearing a gas mask and another in a cat costume -- what do you think the response will be? 'Come on, buddy, I'll by ya a drink?'"  
  
"Sounds like a fair guess," Sandman agreed. "They'll probably help us."  
  
"Help us?" Wildcat grinned. "Help us?" If Sandman could see through Wildcat's cowled mask, he would had seen eyebrows raised halfway up Ted Grant's forehead. "Hey, no offense, huh? But they are not going to help two guys dressed as us with nothing, Sandman."  
  
Sandman looked at Wildcat.  
  
"Okay, Sandman. I just don't want to end up dead, you dig?"  
  
"Don't worry," Sandman said. He opened the car door and stepped out onto the sidewalk.   
  
Wildcat got out and slammed the door.  
  
Sandman started across the street.  
  
The smell of sweat, garbage, gasoline and liquor assailed the nostrils of Wildcat. There was fear, too. Little kids hawked newspapers or listened to the new-type of transistor radios. Some older kids -- middle to late teens -- hung out along the curb or at the corners.  
  
On the sidewalks there were women, too. Just pretty girls who happened to live in a rough part of town. It was obvious, though, what some of them did for a living.  
  
Sandman stared at a door three buildings down from the Korean Veteran Social Club. It was open, with music coming from it. An almost painfully thin black girl, a glazed look in her eyes, stood snapping her fingers to the beat of the music. She seemed totally unaware of the bustle on the street around her. Her skirt -- too short for normal length, too long for a miniskirt -- was tight around her thighs.  
  
"Wonderful part of town you brought me to, Sandman," Wildcat observed.  
  
"There's nothing wrong with this part of town," Sandman told him, dodging a gray Cadillac. "Most of the people who live here are decent. Probably better churchgoers than you or I could ever be. Just a few rough guys and women."  
  
"I think they all turned out to meet us."  
  
There were three youths standing beside the plate-glass window. The red lettering across the window proclaimed, Korean Veteran Karate Institute, with phone numbers and hours.  
  
Sandman started for the door. He slowed as three men stepped between him and the door. "You dudes lookin' for somethin'?" one of the tough-looking guys asked.  
  
Trying to sound pleasant but authoratative through his mask, Sandman said, "You get out of my way or the karate studio is going to be needing a new window."  
  
"How come?" the tough-guy asked.  
  
"Cause he's going to throw you through it." Sandman jerked his thumb at Wildcat.  
  
"He gonna?" asked another of the three who was wearing a yellow shirt.  
  
"Yep, he's tough. He fights a lot. Me, I just shoot people." Sandman let his suit coat swing open to show one of his gas guns in a shoulder holster.  
  
"Hey, brother, I'm cool," Yellow shirt said, laughing.  
  
The other two stepped away while Yellow shirt did the same.  
  
"Pigs," one of the three snapped as he moved out of the way.  
  
Sandman looked at him but said nothing. He passed him by, shouldering the glass door into the karate school, feeling Wildcat right behind him.  
  
The floor was covered with green indoor-outdoor carpet. In one corner was a new-looking metal desk behind which a pretty girl sat. A wood-paneled partition ran the width of the room behind her chair.  
  
She cleared her throat. "Can I help you gentlemen?" she asked.  
  
Sandman walked over to the desk. He glanced past the desk to the curtained doorway that led to the larger portion of the first floor.  
  
"Yes, I'd like to see the man in charge. We used to pal around together when we were younger," Sandman said pleasantly. "I've got some important business."  
  
"I'm sorry, but Mr Faux can't --"  
  
"Can't be disturbed," Sandman finished for her.  
  
"That's right," she said apologetically.  
  
"Tell him it's The Sandman."  
  
"If you'd like to leave your name and where you can be reached, I'm sure he'll try to get back to you."  
  
"I'm from out of town. Just tell him I'm here."  
  
"I'm afraid I can't do that."  
  
"Do it, please." Sandman said nicely.  
  
She pushed a red button next to the telephone on the top of the desk, then stood up, stepping back toward the wall. A buzzer sounded from somewhere inside the karate school behind the wall.  
  
"Now why did you do that?" Sandman asked her, shaking his head.  
  
Three big men wearing white gis and brown belts parted the curtain and stepped through the doorway. They waited, and a moment later a fourth man in black with a black belt also came out. Two of the white-clad men were black. The other one and the man in black were Oriental.  
  
"Hi, guys," Sandman greeted them. "You're in trouble." He jerked his thumb back toward Wildcat. "He's going to kick the crap out of you."  
  
Sandman looked up. The Oriental in white started past him toward Wildcat. Sandman wheeled half right, his left foot snapping out a fast double Tae Kwon Doe kick to the abdomen and chest. The man staggered back, reeling. He regained his balance and assumed a guard position.  
  
The second Oriental, in the black outfit, was already moving. Sandman finished the wheeling stance and feigned a kick with his right, landing on the same foot. He backhanded the edge of his left hand into the black-clad Oriental's throat. Before the man had time to fall, Sandman snapped out three straight-arm punches in rapid succession into the man's face -- left, right, left. The guy slammed into the wall, then slid to the floor, unconscious.  
  
Sandman looked up as the two black men came at him. He lifted one of them up bodily, sidestepping to let the other rush past. Sandman threw the first one forward. The man's spine crunched against the edge of the metal desk as the girl screamed. Sandman spun around in time to see Wildcat's left arm rocketing up almost from his toes toward the other black's jaw. The blow sent the man's body jackknifing across the desk as the girl screamed again.  
  
Sandman balanced on his right foot, his hands in a guard position. He stepped forward on his right foot then, feet apart, his right hand snaking out into the first Oriental's face. As the man fell backward, Sandman rushed forward and leaped into the air, a double drop kick slamming the man against the wall. The man crumpled into an unmoving heap.  
  
Then Sandman shouted, "Behind you, Wildcat!" The three men who had accosted them on the street had just entered the room.  
  
Wildcat did not wait for their attack. He picked up one of the men and threw him across the room. Sandman dodged left as the body flew past him. Then Wildcat was locked in combat with the other two, one of them being Yellow Shirt. Wildcat switched to a left-handed fighting stance, snapping out his right. Yellow Shirt dodged left, straight into the former heavyweight champion of the world's swinging left hand. The blow caught him in the middle of the forehead, knocking him sprawling.  
  
The other man was coming at Wildcat, the straight razor he was holding glinting dully in the fluorescent light. The young black dipped left. Wildcat moved left and jumped back as the man swiped at him. The blade missed, and Wildcat grabbed the man's wrist, jerking his arm behind his back. The man screamed in pain as his arm snapped at the shoulder, and the razor clattered to the floor.  
  
The man fell back, whimpering as he dashed for the door.  
  
Wildcat turned to Sandman. "That it?"  
  
Sandman shrugged, stepping forward, his hands still in a guard position -- tucked against his sides, fists curled and out.  
  
"Maybe. Let's go through the opening beyond the partition there. Come on." Sandman started forward.  
  
They reached the partition simultaneously, and Sandman stepped back, saying to Wildcat, "You first, son."  
  
Wildcat looked at him, mimicking, "'You first, son.' Thanks a hell of a lot." Wildcat stepped through and Sandman followed. Suddenly Wildcat exclaimed, "Oh, no, not again!" Four men in gis with white belts were running at them.  
  
"Hey, Wildcat, you want all of them? They're just white belts."  
  
"Shut up and give me a hand, Sandman," Wildcat snarled, letting the nearest of the four men come at him with a flying kick. Wildcat just sidestepped it, diving left as the man flew past. Before the man could regain his balance, Wildcat kicked out and sent the man sprawling on the floor.  
  
Sandman stepped to the right as two of the three remaining attackers approached him. Wildcat grabbed the third man by the throat and crotch, lifting him bodily, then throwing him flat against the wall. The wall trembled and fell as the secretary ran through the door screaming.  
  
Sandman's two opponents were closing on him. He wheeled, pivoting on his left foot. His right caught the first guy in the abdomen, hammering him back. Sandman wheeled again as the second man punched out a straight-arm right. Sandman's left foot snapped up and out twice to the right rib cage. The man fell back like a worn-out toy.  
  
Sandman caught Wildcat's eyes. They both looked left.  
  
A man with a worried look on his face stood at the far end of the practice floor. He had the appearance of someone who might be in charge.  
  
Wildcat called out to him, "Oh, hi! Can we have a moment of your time?"  
  
  
  
TO BE CONTINUED ....  
  
  
***  
  
Come visit me and/or Chris Dee and the other fine writers at Gotham After Dark Message Board at: http://pub101.ezboard.com/bgothampm 


	17. Chapter 17

JSA: Atrocity 

By Bruce Wayne 

DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters portrayed in this story are copyright by DC Comics, an AOL/Time/Warner company. They are used without permission for entertainment without profit by the author. 

An Elseworld's story: Stories, situation or events involving familiar characters in unfamiliar settings. 

Chapter 17 

Upon the arrival of the Justice Society of America in Gateway City, Batman had directed The Atom to find Mr Terrific and "order him to report to us immediately." As The Atom was starting out the door of their temporary headquarters, Batman called out to him. "Atom, don't _order Mr Terrific ... better __ask him." The Caped Crusader's lip twitched slightly. "Mr Terrific is a very obstinate man. _

There never was another man like the crimefighter known as Mr Terrific, whose real name was Terry Sloane. A child prodigy, Sloane as a young boy demonstrated superb skills in athletics, martial arts and engineering skills. He entered college at the age of 12 and graduated in less than a year. After obtaining the maximum formal education available to him, he devoted himself to athletics, again showing superb performance. He later turned his attention to business, where he rapidly became successful and wealthy. 

The accomplishments Sloane had achieved by a rather early age, may had been considerable, but they left Terry feeling unchallenged and depressed. He felt pressured by living a so-called "perfect" existence. 

An advocate of "Fair Play," at various times he had been a professional boxer, a ballet dancer, a doctor, a dentist, a lawyer, and an honorary Indian chief. He spoke several languages fluently. He held a black belt in Judo. He was an accomplished wrestler, fencer, and swimmer. He was a published writer. Numerous international galleries prized his oil paintings. He played the piano, violin, trumpet, and drums, and once had given an organ recital in Notre Dame Cathedral. 

Mr Terrific had a theme song. It implied that he could do anything better than anyone else. 

He _could do anything better than anyone else! _

The Atom found Mr Terrific in a back alley. The crimefighter was facing off against two attackers armed with knives. Mr Terrific managed to grab a nearby wooden pole and with a twist of his wrist both men were disarmed very quickly. 

The Atom had jumped down from his vantage post and assisted in defeating the two criminals rather easily. 

As the two attackers lay unconscious at their feet, The Atom turned to Mr Terrific and said, "Hey, buddy, Batman --" 

"Ah!" Mr Terrific held up his hand in a sign that The Atom should stop where he was. He smiled, shook his head and proceeded to walk away from The Atom. The discussion was over. 

Upon returning back to the temporary JSA headquarters, The Atom related to Dr Mid-Nite what had happened and how Mr Terrific had responded negatively. 

"What do you mean he said _NO?!" Dr Mid-Nite exclaimed. _

"You shoulda saw him, Doc!" The Atom said admiringly. "_Bango, wiffo! Both of them were disarmed so fast I couldn't believe it!" _

"Cut that out!" Dr Mid-Nite roared. "Batman might hear you. Come on, Atom, I'll go with you and we'll both ask Terrific to help us." 

A few hours later, Dr Mid-Nite was explaining to Batman. "It would have taken Green Lantern to drag him here. He was incredible! NO! He was ... really _terrific! There he was after stopping an armed robbery with three large men pinning his arms and legs ... then __socko!" Dr Mid-Nite flailed out with arms and legs. "They went flying like tenpins." _

"Big deal!" Batman roared. "Am I supposed to be impressed? Mr Terrific! He ought to be stuffed in a time capsule and shot into outer space!" 

After a moment of consideration, Batman said, "I'll contact Terrific myself." 

*** 

It had turned cold during the very early morning hours. At a secluded location in Gateway City, Batman was meeting up with the other protector of the city who was know as Mr Terrific. 

The Caped Crusader was looking at Mr Terrific's handsome features which had been compared in the local press to Rudolph Valentino, Clark Gable, Cary Grant, Rock Hudson, among other idols of stage and screen. 

After spotting Batman in the dark alleyway, Mr Terrific had waltzed over in a leisurely manner in which he did everything. Amusement curled the corners of his mouth as he approached the crimefighter from Gotham City. 

"Well, hello ... Batman." There was an impudent accent on the last word. 

"Terrific," the Caped Crusader began, "I'm here because --" 

"You want something." 

"Don't be clever," Batman snapped. "I came here because --" He gave thought to where he was at the moment and the importance of what he wanted to relate to Mr Terrific. "Maybe the JSA command post would be a better place to talk." 

"I doubt it, Batman." 

"Once you realize the importance of this project, I know you'll be interested in --" 

"Batman, I have the highest regard for you and the rest of the JSA." 

"Thank you." The Masked Manhunter's hopes rose -- only to be promptly dashed again. 

"But I'm really quite busy, Batman. There's the ballet, you know." 

"You rather watch a ballet than help us?" 

"No," Mr Terrific said airly. "To teach one." 

Batman tried to digest Mr Terrific's attitude. He took a deep breath and attempted to approach the Gateway City hero in another way. "Terrific, in the past you and I have had some differences --" He noted the funny look Mr Terrific was giving him. "But let's forget the past ... Terrific, it's every citizen's duty to serve his --" 

Mr Terrific cut him off sharply. "Please, Batman. Don't wave the flag here in the alley. Just come to the point." 

The point was lost to the Caped Crusader as Mr Terrific changed the subject. "How is Hawkman?" Mr Terrific asked Batman, grinning. 

Batman nodded. "He's his usual conservative self, Terrific. 

Mr Terrific laughed. "Yes, he is a bit on the conservative side, isn't he?" 

"Agreed," said the Caped Crusader in an unamused tone. "But we're going to need him on this case, as well as yourself -- that's why I'm here." 

Mr Terrific rolled his eyes at Batman and grinned. "You think so, old friend?" 

They were standing behind a huge warehouse and the area was dark -- just the way Batman liked it. The two heroes were leaning against Mr Terrific's Cadillac. 

Batman skipped the question. "We need your help, Terrific." 

"It's nice to be needed, Batman." 

"Now look here, this is no joking matter. In fact it's the most important assignment in the world today. Maybe in the entire history of the world." 

"Wonderful, I hope you find a hero worthy enough to help you." 

The caped crimefighter swallowed hard and got hold of his temper. "Terrific, this involves explosives coupled with VX nerve gas. You're the best man for the job. The only man." 

"That must have pleased you, Caped Crusader, to come to that realization," Mr Terrific said with an edge of sarcasm. 

"Terrific, I'm not a man who carries a grudge. We've had our disagreements, as I've said. But that's water over the dam. Spilled milk. Forgive and forget is my motto." 

"It would be," Mr Terrific said mockingly. "Batman, it just wouldn't work between us. I'm the fuse to your powder keg." 

"Terrific!" the Caped Crusader roared. "The world is in trouble!" 

"It usually is, Batman. And it manages to extricate itself without me." 

"You're the only one, Terrific. You're a world-renown explosives expert. Even Wildcat and Wonder Woman agree." 

"Batman, you once told me that you preferred to have your problems than my solutions to them." 

Gotham City's Masked Manhunter threw up his arms in exasperation. "You're just as impossible as you always were. Arrogant! Conceited! Selfish! What can I say that will change your mind?" 

"You could say _please." _

Batman was stunned. But in the interest of getting Mr Terrific on board with the rest of the team, Batman relented with an uncharacteristic, "Please." 

"No sweat, Batman." 

The Masked Vigilante of Gotham City nodded again. 

"So tell me, Caped Crusader, what's going on?" 

Batman cleared his throat and began to speak. "There's a very dangerous villian running around with some stolen VX nerve gas." The Most Dangerous Man on Earth scanned Mr Terrific's face which went from puzzled to almost unimpressed. 

"The villian's name is False-Face," continued Batman. "He's very dangerous. He can look like anybody -- your brother, your father, your preacher. He can disguise himself to look like any one of us." 

Mr Terrific laughed, and the Caped Crusader raised his right hand after a moment. 

Batman added, "We think we know his first target -- Gateway City. He might use the nerve gas at anytime. He's got the services of one of the top bombmakers in the world, who is also an expert in chemical weapons -- man called The Boomer. They're both Nazis. Maybe False-Face wants to rule the world. Anyway, False-Face has enough VX to kill just about everyone in the U.S., and we figure he's getting ready to demonstrate what he can do with the gas here in Gateway City maybe real soon. The authorities don't know what we know yet and won't for another twelve hours. That means we can work through until midday tomorow without police all over the place." 

"What about evacuating?" Mr Terrific asked. 

"We thought of that," Batman answered. "But to evacuate Gateway City if there wasn't such a threat would be needlessly causing death and destruction. If there is VX nerve gas to be released, it'd be typical of False-Face's mentality, his barbarism, to use the gas where the greatest number of evacuees would be hurt. To clear the city would be impossible without days of work. The cost of human life is too great to gamble." 

"That's good sense, Caped Crusader." 

Batman's voice had a tinge of anger as he said, "We've got to find False-Face or the team he's using. But by just finding one canister of nerve gas won't stop him. There are other cities, other times. Still at any cost, we've got to find the VX he is planting here. The JSA is trying to figure a way of doing it, but we don't have it yet." 

Mr Terrific looked at the crimefighter from Gotham in the eye and said enthusiastically, "Thanks for the briefing, Batman. Let's get rolling!" 

*** 

"Let me help you, sister," the bus driver said, reaching up his right hand. 

False-Face smiled warmly, letting the bus driver take his elbow as he gathered up the long black skirt. "Thank you, young man, and God bless you, too." His voice was that of an old lady. False-Face stopped at the base of the bus steps, looking from side to side at the traffic and the crush of humanity in the downtown area of Gateway City. 

Then, gathering his skirts again, he started walking toward the hotel front. He stopped there, waiting, his wrinkled hands folded together at the bodice of the thick habit. A gust of wind whipped the white veil. 

The bus driver stopped unloading luggage and called over to him. "Sister, is someone meeting you?" 

"Yes, thank you," False-Face replied, assuming the old-lady voice. "Some of the parishioners are coming, young man." 

The bus driver smiled and returned to his work. False-Face watched as he moved Sister Mary Genevieve's luggage. 

The three suitcases contained three containers of VX nerve gas. 

False-Face stood at the curb. The diesel fumes from the idling bus were making him dizzy. A minute later, a car pulled up next to him. 

A man was driving the car with another man next to him. False-Face settled himself in the back next to a blond-haired, chubby woman. False-Face sat behind the front-seat passenger. He kept using the feminine voice until the car was away from the curb. 

Then the woman beside him said, "It's amazing, Mr False-Face ... that you can do what you do. I mean --" 

"The disguises?" False-Face slipped back into his own voice but tried to keep his bodily attitude that of his character's. There was great deal of traffic, and he had no desire to attract even the slightest suspicion. "I select a character long in advance, either a real character whose Identity I must assume or a fictitious character whose identity I can use at any time. Sister Mary Genevieve, for example --" and he slipped back into the wavery older feminine voice "-- she's such a dear old person." 

He reverted back to his own voice again, reaching up to the heart-shaped object at the base of the wimpled collar just over his nearly flat-chested breasts. "This for example, is metal." He touched the cross that hung on the long oversized rosary trailing down the side of his black, ankle-length skirt. "This is metal." 

Glancing through the window to see that no pedestrian or motorist might be looking, he raised the black poncholike dress beneath the white collar to show where the sleeves of the dress met the armpit. "These are pinned -- again metal." He hiked up his skirt above his knees to expose his right thigh. A razor-blade-thin knife in a sheath was held up by garter clips. "In some respects, it is the perfect disguise." He dropped the skirt again. He was tired of talking to the woman, but had decided to be polite. She was the wife of the Nazi-leaning driver. 

"But Mr False-Face," the woman persisted, "I--I just don't how to -- Oh, never mind." 

"Do I like women, or just like to dress like them? I disguise myself however is necessary," False-Face told her. "Yesterday I was a general in the United States Army, before that something else. And yes, I like women. Very much." He turned away from the woman beside him, staring into the street. 

Wind gusted outside. He could hear and feel it on the exposed skin of his face -- even through the makeup -- through the partially opened window. There was a tall thin girl standing at the curb, waiting beside a bus-stop sign. The wind caught at her blond hair, and he looked at her closely as the car passed her. "I like women very much," he murmured. 

*** 

He secured the dark tie with a Windsor knot, then picked up the handcuff tie tack from the dresser. He placed the tack on the tie, securing it to the blue shirt he wore. 

False-Face stepped back from the mirror, satisfied with his appearance. He was now dark haired, with a neatly trimmed brush mustache and a scar over his left eyebrow. The gold-capped canine tooth glittered on the right side of his mouth. 

He turned away from the mirror and located the gun belt and the handcuff case. The Gateway City policeman outfit was perfect. Already at his trouser belt was a .36-caliber revolver. He put on the gun belt, then picked up the revolver that lay on the bed. He settled the revolver in the holster after checking the cylinder again. He reached for the officer's cap, not bothering to put it on. 

He walked out of the bedroom into the narrow hallway of the home, then turned right and down the steps, stopping halfway. The blond-haired wife of the Nazi looked up saying, "It can't be you!" 

Billy Mason, who had come by a different route and arrived three hours before False-Face himself, laughed. "F.F., you should have stayed an actor. You are brilliant!" 

In his new West Coast voice, False-Face said, "You bastards are under arrest. Up against the wall and spread 'em." Then False-Face laughed. 

*** 

The basement recreation room -- already curtained against the eyes of prying neighbors -- had been converted to a bomb factory. The pool table was covered with a floral-print bedsheet, and over that was a plastic painter's drop cloth. Now False-Face was working over the table, following the directions given him by The Boomer. 

False-Face made the last adjustment of the electronics, then fitted his detonation device. It was ready. 

He checked the Timex watch that went with his new disguise. He watched the sweep second hand, then looked at the clock that was part of the detonator. He had set both according to the time the telephone operator had given him. He watched the second hand edge past twelve, then flicked the toggle switch on the detonator at the same second. 

In the voice of the cop, False-Face exclaimed, "Hot damn!" Flyboy was the only one who laughed. 

*** 

"How can you just sit there so calmly, Mr. False-Face?" asked Belcher, the husband of the blond woman. 

False-Face was relaxing in an overstuffed armchair in the Belcher's living room, sipping his coffee. Billy Mason reclined on the sofa. 

In his own voice, False-Face answered, "Very easily. The bomb will not detonate until it is supposed to detonate. It is totally safe." 

"I've been a Nazi for many years, but I never did anything like this," the man said. 

False-Face smiled at him and then at the second Nazi. "But you have been loyal to the party -- more than that, to the ideal. Anyone can go out wearing a swastika armband and picket a synagogue, or pick fights with blacks. But you have done none of that." 

"My father, his brother -- they both served the fuhrer." 

"And served him well in the underground here -- as you serve the new order that will come because of your efforts." 

"Mr False-Face, would it not be possible," Mr Belcher asked, "to know your true identity? It would mean a lot to my wife, Janet. And I could tell our grandchildren that we knew you, were here when the new order began." 

False-Face smiled expansively. "Perhaps this is my real face. Perhaps I am really that old nun or perhaps someone else. If you do not know me as I really am, then you are in no danger --" 

"That we might betray you?" the second Nazi asked. 

False-Face sipped again at his coffee. "Mrs Belcher, you make excellent coffee," he told the blond woman. 

She smiled, then said, "Is that it then, Mr False-Face? That we might accidentally betray you?" 

False-Face laughed. "I trust your loyalties. Only drugs or the most severe tortures might force you to denounce your vows. But, no, it is for your safety. As long as you do not know me, you cannot be cruelly abused by the Americans into divulging that which you do not know. I understand that one of the American heroes -- Wonder Woman -- has a magical device of some sort that forces people to tell the truth to her questions." He laughed. "It is for your safety, not mine, that I hide my face." 

"But --" It was the blond woman. 

False-Face looked at the Timex. There was still time to talk. "Yes, Frau Belcher?" 

She smiled at his use of the word "Frau." The woman asked, "I just wondered ... ahh ... with your ... your personal life --" 

He interrupted her. "If I take a woman, I wear my own face. But since no one knows the face of False-Face, it does no harm. Does that --" and he smiled "-- answer your question, Frau Belcher?" 

Her husband turned to her. "Janet, that's enough! You're embarrassing, Mr False-Face." 

"Yes. Yes, William," she answered dutifully, looking down at her hands in her lap. 

False-Face coughed, then said, "The other four will be here shortly, correct?" 

"Yes," the second Nazi replied. 

"Then we will proceed to the university, deposit the device and radio detonate it after we are safely away." 

"But the timer?" Mrs Belcher asked. 

"The timer is a backup system," False-Face told her easily, smiling. "While Mrs Belcher goes to safety," he continued, "we seven will plant the device. Flyboy will be waiting to airlift us." He glanced at his watch, then at Billy Mason. "Billy, take Mrs Belcher to the others who are loyal and travel to safety." 

"Yes, False-Face," Flyboy said, uncoiling himself from the sofa, smiling at Janet Belcher. 

She stood up, fussing with her clothes for an instant. Then she leaned down and hugged her husband's neck. 

"William, be careful," she murmured. She looked at all of them collectively, then individually. "Mr False-Face, bless you." And then to the second Nazi, "And bless you, too, Fred." 

"Thanks, Janet," Fred said. "We'll be fine." Then he laughed. "I'll bring Bill safely back home to you." 

She sniffed once loudly, then started from the room. Billy Mason, riveting his eyes for an instant to False-Face's, followed her out of the room. 

TO BE CONTINUED .... 

*** 

Come visit me and/or Chris Dee and the other fine writers at Gotham After Dark Message Board at: http://pub101.ezboard.com/bgothampm 


	18. Chapter 18

JSA: Atrocity 

By Bruce Wayne 

DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters portrayed in this story are copyright by DC Comics, an AOL/Time/Warner company. They are used without permission for entertainment without profit by the author. 

An Elseworld's story: Stories, situation or events involving familiar characters in unfamiliar settings. 

Chapter 18 

Batman looked out from the second floor of the JSA's temporary command post in Gateway City down onto Forty-seventh Street. 

Dr Mid-Nite, Hourman, and Mr Terrific came through the door into the room. "Beautiful view, huh?" Mr Terrific asked. 

Batman glanced back down at Forty-seventh Street in the non-descript neighborhood. "Oh, yeah, really." 

Dr Mid-Nite sat in one of the leather armchairs beside the desk. Mr Terrific went around the desk and, of course, sank into the leather swivel chair. 

"I came up with something interesting," Mid-Nite announced to the Caped Crusader. 

Batman looked at him, watching the grin on his fellow crimefighter's face. 

Dr Mid-Nite informed the others, "First of all, back channel information reveals that General Franklin is presumed dead. Fingerprints found on the scene of the helicopter thefts were distinct enough to indicate they were not Franklin's, not a single half of a thumbprint. Franklin's house showed signs of illegal entry. Franklin's wife is missing, but their bank accounts -- none of that has been touched. This morning Hourman gave me a description of Franklin's pilot. The man was slightly built, blond haired, smiled a good deal and seemed, well --" 

"I said he looked like a homosexual, the expression in his eyes, the way he moved. He just seemed -- well, I don't," Hourman explained. 

"Going on the assumption that you're right, Rex," Dr Mid-Nite continued, "I checked for a blond-haired, slightly built homosexual helicopter pilot with a Korean war record. I came up with just one man -- a crack helicopter pilot. A known criminal since those days. In and out of jail. Wanted currently for ice-picking somebody -- oddly enough -- in Gateway City. Also, for his involvement, according to the Spectre's everyday identity, in a brawl just recently here, too, with a tall effeminate-looking but muscular man who fought like a mountain lion." 

"False-Face," whispered Batman. 

"My thought, exactly, Caped Crusader," Dr Mid-Nite said. "Man's name is Billy Mason. Also known as Flyboy. He worked with False-Face before, we think." 

"If False-Face is planting a bomb laced with VX nerve gas ..." Mr Terrific remarked. "Hell, I'm an explosives expert. You can blow up anything with anything, but the trick of the thing is not to be there when the device goes up." 

"So False-Face would have the same problem, only on a bigger scale," Batman murmured. 

"So he'd need a helicopter," Hourman added. 

"He'd need the best and most reliable helicopter pilot he could find. Someone totally ruthless and totally loyal to him," Dr Mid-Nite added. 

"That homosexual," Mr Terrific said. 

"Billy Mason," Dr Mid-Nite added. "Born William Aloysius Mason in the Midwest, in Davenport, Iowa." The crimefighter was reading from a file that he had brought in. "For a time he worked as a helicopter pilot after the war -- here in Gateway City. The ownership of the helicopter service has changed twice since then, but --" 

"Holy Hijack!" Mr Terrific rasped. "Let's go!" 

Batman checked his utility belt as he went through the door behind Mr Terrific, Dr Mid-Nite and Hourman. 

*** 

The gray van stopped at the corner, turning right onto Ninety-fifth Street and heading east. William Belcher was driving. False-Face, wearing a cloth coat over his Gateway City police uniform shirt and his hat on his lap, sat beside him. In the back of the van were Fred and four other men. False-Face looked over the short sloping hood along the street. "We are in Kingsville still?" he asked. 

"Yes, Mr False-Face," Belcher answered. 

"Have all key personnel with the exception of yourselves been removed a safe distance from Gateway City?" 

"Yes, Mr False-Face," Belcher answered. 

"You are brave men. Your names will be revered by future generations," False-Face told them. He knew it was what they wanted to hear. 

No one said anything. 

False-Face checked his map; there were no notations written on it. He memorized notations, rather than leaving them as evidence. "You plan to turn left on Western Avenue to Seventy-ninth Street, then proceed east again toward the university?" 

Yes, Mr False-Face," Belcher said. False-Face was watching him. 

"Good, but when we near Western Avenue, please inform me." 

Belcher looked at him. "Yes, sir." 

Several minutes passed without anyone saying anything. Then Belcher broke the silence. "Sir, this is California Street. Western is four long blocks ahead." 

"Very good," False-Face said, glancing up from his map. "There is a different plan. I saved its detail until the last minute. You will turn right instead and proceed to the to the end of the line station for what I believe is called the River Street subway." 

"The subway?" Fred asked from behind him. 

"Yes," False-Face droned in his own voice. "The bomb will not be detonated at the university as I indicated. The last-minute change is for security purposes only. In the event of a leak --" 

"Surely none of us --" Belcher almost pleaded. 

"Of course not," False-Face reassured him. "But there are others who might possibly have unwittingly divulged some tidbit of information that even now the FBI or some other organization might be acting upon. We shall plant the bomb with the nerve gas on the subway train, and it shall be left aboard the train at the far Western station just past the suburb of Pleasantview. I believe the place is Oregon Avenue?" 

"Yes, sir," Belcher said. 

"The bomb will be detonated there in the switching yard. The six of you will accompany it to make certain it remains secure. Once you leave the bomb, I would have you open the bomb case and flick the toggle switch marked 'A.'" He glanced back toward the trunk-sized suitcase between the five men who sat in the rear of the van. 

"After working this toggle switch," False-Face proceeded, "you will have exactly one half hour to reach a forest preserve near Fifth Avenue and South Avenue, not far from the switching yard. Flyboy will be waiting for you with a helicopter." 

The van made the right-hand turn onto Western Avenue. False-Face stripped off his coat and put on his police officer's hat. "I wish you good luck," he said in his own voice, then added in the character of the Gateway City policeman, "I'm countin' on you guys a hell of a lot." 

Belcher only nodded. 

*** 

The sign read: _Gateway City Whirlybirds -- Executive Helicopter Service -- Flight Instruction Available. _

Batman stepped out of the Batmobile, followed by Dr Mid-Nite. Hourman rode in Mr Terrific's Cadillac and the two of them had made it to the office first. Dr Mid-Nite and Batman walked toward the doorway of the chopper-service office. 

The Caped Crusader saw Hourman and Mr Terrific coming outside with a third man between them. 

"This gentleman says he rented out his last charter about fifteen minutes ago," Mr Terrific said. 

Batman looked at Terrific, then past him at a blue-and-white Bell helicopter. "What the hell's that, a mirage?" Batman shouted. 

"No, but I don't have another pilot, mister" the man between Mr Terrific and Hourman shouted. 

Batman walked up to him. "Who did you rent it to?" 

"None of your --" 

Hourman grabbed the man's bicep and squeezed. "I don't mean to be unfriendly, sir, but the guy you rented it to -- was he blond, kind of slight? Maybe he looked like he was a homosexual?" 

The man listened to the question with his mouth wide open in a silent scream. He finally managed to catch his breath and voice from the shock of the pain in his arm. "Yeah, that was him. He said he had to pick up a half-dozen guys and bring 'em back here. That's his car over there." The man's eyes flickered to Batman's left. 

Batman glanced that way. A green Ford was parked by a small, abandoned-looking hanger. 

The Sandmobile screeched to a stop near the four crimefighters and civilian. 

Mr Terrific was already calling out to the vehicle's occupants, "Sandman, Wildcat, you two go can-opener that Ford." 

"Watch out for fingerprints -- the ones already on the car," Batman called after them. Then he looked back at the proprietor of the helicopter service. The eyes behind the lenses in the cowl stared a hole into the man who was being reluctantly cooperative at best. 

The man breathed audibly. "Who are you guys?" 

"Which direction did the pilot say he was going?" Batman asked, ignoring the man's question. "Eastern suburbs, maybe?" 

"Uh-huh, that's what the blond guy said." 

"I want to use the helicopter you have there. She fueled and checked out?" 

The man nodded. "But it won't do you any good. My other pilot's out with the third helicopter." 

"Two of us here can fly a helicopter," Batman told him -- referring without saying so to Mr Terrific and himself. 

"Hey, ain't no way nobody's flyin' one of --" 

Hourman squeezed the man's bicep again. "Now, sir, I'm sure you would prefer that your arm remained attached to your shoulder, wouldn't you? We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Either option is just fine with us. The choice is up to you." 

"I'll get the keys," the man stammered. 

"Hey, Terrific!" 

Batman looked left. It was Wildcat, standing beside the green Ford. The trunk lid was open. 

"Hourman," the Caped Crusader snapped. "Get our friend to start up the motors if he can. Hurry." Batman started after Mr Terrific, running toward the rented car beside the old hanger. 

"Batman!" Mr Terrific exclaimed as the masked crimefighter from Gotham City stopped beside the trunk next to Terrific. Through a rip in a couple of green canvas tarps he could see part of a woman's face and some blond hair. The face was a little chubby. The eyes were wide open, glassy. The shaft of an ice pick was poking out of her jugular vein. 

"Flyboy," Batman whispered. 

"That Son of a --" Mr Terrific let it hang. 

*** 

"Hey, pilot," Billy "Flyboy" Mason called out, tapping the thin, dark-haired man on the shoulder. 

"Yeah?" the pilot shouted back over the twin-blade rotor noise. 

"We're going south now," Flyboy shouted. 

"What? Thought we were headed out to the eastern suburbs," the pilot shouted back. 

Billy looked down at the streets below them. "No, everybody, at least anybody who's interested, should think that by now. No use not telling you, though," Flyboy said. "I'm taking the helicopter to the far south side of town. Picking up only one man, not six. Those six other men -- they're carrying a bomb laced with VX nerve gas aboard one of your subway trains. They think it won't go off for a half hour after they set the timer, but it's just a fake timer," he shouted. "The real timer --" he glanced at his watch "-- was set two minutes ago. The bomb will detonate just as the train passes through downtown Gateway City -- the early rush hour. Boom, within minutes the nerve gas will spread from the ventilation ducts into the air -- all gone. Thousands of people dead." 

The pilot started to reach for him, but Flyboy jabbed a gun against the pilot's rib cage. He pumped the trigger three times, then reached out and grabbed the controls. He released the pilot's seat belt, then reached across and flicked open the door-handle latch, letting the door swing out against the slipstream around them. He gave the dead pilot a shove. If he wasn't dead, Billy reasonsed, he would be by the time he landed in the vacant lot below them. 

The body fell away from the hovering chopper. 

Flyboy watched, fascinated, as the body tumbled downward. It was so graceful. He had been a nice-looking man. "Boom, all gone." Billy sighed wistfully. 

*** 

Hourman, Dr Mid-Nite, Wildcat and Sandman were in the back of the chopper, while Mr Terrific sat up front beside Batman. 

Mr Terrific was tuning the radio set under the helicopter instrument panel, trying to pick up police frequencies. Gateway City police, he explained, broadcast on one frequency and received on another. 

The radio crackled, then a voice came on over the headphone that looked more like an old-time telephone operator headset. What they heard was a district-headquarters bulletin. "All units in the vicinity of Seventy-ninth and Kostner ... citizen report of a body-shaped object being thrown from a helicopter, landing in vacant lot. This is a --" 

Mr Terrific cut off the radio. "Flyboy?" he shouted to Batman. 

"Flyboy!" The Caped Crusader shouted back. 

Batman banked the Bell helicopter hard starboard, pouring on speed. 

In the distance, through the industrial pollution and smoke, he saw something. He poured on more speed, glancing through the clear panels beneath his feet, seeing police cars converging on a vacant lot below him. A dark twisted shape lay in the center of the lot. The shape was obscured by dust as the police cars closed in. The object ahead of him in the sky grew clearer now -- a helicopter. He pushed the speedometer over ninety, going after it. 

"All right, you filthy criminal," Batman growled. He only wished Billy "Flyboy" Mason could hear him. 

TO BE CONTINUED .... 

*** 

Come visit me and/or Chris Dee and the other fine writers at Gotham After Dark Message Board at: http://pub101.ezboard.com/bgothampm 


	19. Chapter 19

JSA: Atrocity  
  
By Bruce Wayne  
  
DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters portrayed in this story are copyright by DC Comics, an AOL/Time/Warner company. They are used without permission for entertainment without profit   
by the author.  
  
An Elseworld's story: Stories, situation or events involving familiar characters in unfamiliar settings.  
  
  
Chapter 19  
  
  
False-Face walked along the platform. His men were long gone aboard the train now. The timer was set. All was in readiness. He saw a young black man trying to steal the purse off an older black woman. True to his role, False-Face started toward them, shouldering the young black man aside, "Get outta here before you wind up in the slammer, kid," he snarled. The young man's eyes were angry black dots, with yellow where the whites should be. False-Face guessed that he used drugs.  
  
"Hey, man, I'm not doin' nothin', so take it easy, Officer, huh?"  
  
False-Face smiled, glancing from left to right. No one was watching yet. He rammed his knee into the young black's crotch. The kid doubled toward him. False-Face grabbed him, asking in a louder-than-normal voice, "Hey, you all right, kid? Want me to call an ambulance?" Then he shoved the young man back against a pillar that supported the roof over the train platform.  
  
"Nah, but you ain't seen the last of me, man," said the young black, starting to run across the platform.  
  
False-Face turned to the older black woman, tapping his right index finger to the brim of his cap like a salute. "Everything okay, ma'am?"  
  
"Thank you, Officer. I'm all right now," she said.  
  
He gave her his best police officer grin and continued along the platform. In the distance he heard the whirring beat of rotor blades. He looked up and saw the helicopter moving in. It would be Flyboy. He started down toward the parking lot, walking quickly.  
  
The helicopter was coming in fast, hovering, gliding downward now into an open area between parked cars.  
  
False-Face started to run toward it, holding the butt of the revolver in the hip holster. The chopper was less than ten yards away now. He could see Flyboy switching seats in the helicopter. He could hear him shout as False-Face narrowed the distance to five yards. "F.F., there's somebody after me!"  
  
The voice was inflected in a pleading tone, like a whining child asking for help.  
  
False-Face stared at Mason for an instant, then looked skyward. Another helicopter was closing rapidly.  
  
False-Face started to draw his service revolver. Kill Flyboy and leave no leads? He hesitated. Leave Mason alive and the occupants of the helicopter would be busy chasing Billy instead of him.  
  
He smiled broadly, shouting, "Get out of here quickly!" He turned, pushing past the crowd that started to ring itself around the chopper. Suddenly he felt something jab into his left side, burning him, tearing the flesh.  
  
False-Face shouted in pain, stumbling to his knees, falling, turning his head. He saw the young black he had hassled on the train platform, a cheap-looking switchblade in his right hand.  
  
"Honkie mother!" the kid shouted.  
  
False-Face stared, then drew the revolver and emptied half the cylinder into the young black's torso. Screams punctuated each shot as the body lurched back off the platform onto the tracks.  
  
False-Face struggled to his feet, his left hand clamped over his left side, his right hand holstering the gun.  
  
He began to run. There was a pain, a swimming feeling in his head, but he ran fast. He had looked at his Timex watch a few moments earlier, and he always judged time well. The bomb that was laced with VX nerve gas would detonate in twenty-seven minutes.  
  
He ran faster.  
  
  
***  
  
Hourman undid his seat restraint. He got up and zigzagged on his feet, moving forward, positioning himself between and behind Batman and Mr Terrific. As the helicopter moved wildly dowward and ahead, he supported himself by holding on to the seat backs. "What are you doing?"  
  
Batman shouted back to him, "Trying to keep that dastardly villian on the ground!"  
  
Hourman's stomach churned as the helicopter dropped suddenly. The Man of the Hour swayed violently left, but he held on, keeping his balance. He looked down now through the transparent panel in front of their feet. The Bell helicopter seemed to hover just a few feet above the chopper skimming the surface below them. The parking lot was jammed with cars. The helicopter below threaded its way through the open lanes. The Caped Crusader kept the other chopper down by hovering almost directly over it.  
  
There was a howling wind rushing around them. The chopper zigzagged again. Hourman lost his balance, and slammed against the bulkhead.  
  
"Sit down, dammit, Hourman!" Batman shouted.  
  
"You'll never get him this way, Batman!" The Man of the Hour shouted over the wind and the downdraft.  
  
The helicopter below them cut right suddenly. Hourman almost lost his balance again as the floor spun beneath him. Below, the yellow-and-white helicopter was moving fast now, but Batman moved faster, stopping the aircraft from rising. The yellow machine started toward the fence line, then spun one hundred eighty degrees. A storm of dust blew along the ground. Batman chased it, keeping the Bell's runners a safe distance above the yellow machine's rotor blades.  
  
"I'm going down after him, Batman!" Hourman shouted as he popped a Miraclo pill into his mouth and swallowed it.  
  
"No!"  
  
"Hell, yes, I am," Hourman shouted, wrenching the door handle on the port side. He pushed the door toward the fuselage nose, holding himself in the doorframe, then waited. The yellow helicopter under Hourman's feet turned violently, heading back toward the fence line of the parking lot.  
  
Hourman spotted a convertible automobile, the top up. He jumped, his boots impacting against the convertible top. He crashed through it, his arms going out to brace himself. The top shredded under his weight as he fell forward, catching himself across the passenger seat. He pushed himself up and climbed out of the car.  
  
The yellow helicopter was turning, boxed in from above by the blue-and-white Bell chopper. It did another one-eighty and started toward him. Hourman jumped aside, throwing himself onto the hood of a Chevrolet, then getting to his feet and climbing on the roof. With the increased strength that was given to him by his Miraclo pill, Hourman jumped across to a vinyl-topped Ford parked a few cars away. The helicopter's runners were less than a yard from him now. He launched himself about 15 feet upward, reaching out. His fingers curled over the yellow-and-white chopper's runners, then locked on them.   
  
The chopper pulled up and left. The downdraft from the rotor blades beat at him, whipping his yellow cape in all directions.  
  
He swung his legs up. Only his left leg caught the runner and hooked his left elbow over it. He looked up, squinting through the eye holes of his cowl against the wind. He stared at the yellow-and-white helicopter's fuselage for an instant. The pilot's door was open ... slapping back and forth.  
  
Hourman reached out with his right hand, getting his elbow over the runner. He moved his left arm forward, catching the forward support strut of the runner. Extending his right hand, he grabbed the door latch. He pulled on it, at the same time pushing up with his left hand on the support strut. Inch by agonizing inch his body slowly rose, buffeted by the downdraft and wildly gyrating aircraft. He got his left leg under him in an awkward kneeling position. Then he placed his right foot on the strut and pushed himself slowly upright. Both feet were now on the strut. His right hand still grasped the handle, his left was pressed flat against the door, edging for the joint between the door and the fuselage.  
  
Hourman moved forward, his right hand on the door handle, his left arm extended into the doorframe of the pilot's door. The door banged shut against his fingers as the chopper angled hard to port in another one-eighty. Luckily, the Miraclo pill increased Hourman's resistance to pain.  
  
Still edging foward, he could look into the chopper now. The blond-haired man sat at the controls, hair blowing in the downdraft. His face was set, a wild hunted look in his eyes as they locked with Hourman's.  
  
Billy "Flyboy" Mason.  
  
The man held an automatic pistol. Hourman heard a shot and his left upper arm burned suddenly, but the pain did not make him loosen his grip.  
  
The trapped helicopter wheeled one hundred eighty degrees again, lurching downward, then shooting upward, then leveling off again. The pilot was trying to shake him off. The pistol was tracking back toward him.  
  
Hourman wrenched his body with the ebbing strength in his left arm as his right leg found the corner of the doorframe. Leaning on the door, he finally threw himself toward Flyboy into the cockpit. The pistol discharged into the transparent panel in the floor, sending a rush of air hissing into the cabin. The panel cracked as Hourman's left fist locked over the autoloading pistol Mason held.  
  
Hourman's right snapped out, but he restrained himself. If he killed, crippled or knocked Flyboy unsconscious, the helicopter would crash.  
  
He slapped out with his right instead, hard across Mason's mouth. The pistol discharged again. Hourman swatted his left down hard onto the pistol and the gun flew out of Flyboy's hand. Then he snapped the right wrist back against the control panel. The helicopter was lurching violently and a droning whistle started -- the rotor sound overheard was uneven.  
  
Hourman clenched both hands over Mason's throat. Flyboy was trying to wrench free. "Land this helicopter!" Hourman snarled in a threatening tone, lifting Mason out of the pilot's seat by the throat, tensioning him against the seat restraint.  
  
There was a gurgling sound, then a cough. "Yes, all right, yes -- don't kill me, please!"  
  
Hourman raised his bloodied fist from Flyboy's throat, backhanding him across the mouth. "You little worm!" He looked forward at the controls as Mason's hands worked them. "You crash this thing and you'll be dead before it hits the ground!"  
  
His right hand held Flyboy's throat tight. His left hand was stiffening, and his left sleeve was wet with his blood.  
  
  
  
TO BE CONTINUED ....  
  
  
***  
  
Come visit me and/or Chris Dee and the other fine writers at Gotham After Dark Message Board at: http://pub101.ezboard.com/bgothampm 


	20. Chapter 20

JSA: Atrocity  
  
By Bruce Wayne  
  
DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters portrayed in this story are copyright by DC Comics, an AOL/Time/Warner company. They are used without permission for entertainment without profit   
by the author.  
  
An Elseworld's story: Stories, situation or events involving familiar characters in unfamiliar settings.  
  
  
Chapter 20  
  
  
Batman jumped from behind the controls. The downdraft of the twin rotor blades whipped up his cape as he ran toward the yellow-and-white chopper.  
  
Hourman was dragging a slightly built, blond-haired man from behind the controls of the aircraft. Hourman's left arm was drenched in blood. His right was clamped around the man's throat.  
  
"What the hell happened to you?" Batman shouted over the noise of the throbbing choppers, screams and police sirens in the background.  
  
"This S.O.B. shot me." Hourman grabbed Flyboy by the throat, making him cough. "Now tell them what you told me," the Man of the Hour shouted to Mason, shaking him by the neck again.  
  
"It won't do you any good. The bomb's on one of the subway trains. It left about twelve or fifteen minutes ago ... timer's set to go off when it hits the downtown section of the city."  
  
Sandman pulled back his suit jacket sleeve, looking at his watch. "Hell!" he snarled.  
  
"Won't do you any good," Flyboy said again. "Six guys on board -- they think it's goin' off with a timer switch they'll set when they hit the end of the line just past Maple Park. But it won't. It'll go off and take them with it!"  
  
Batman growled, "Hold him, Hourman." And he was already running, trying to move his way through the crowd of curious onlookers blocking his way to the yard house. It was at the far end of the parking lot. Mr Terrific was running beside him.  
  
"What the hell's going on?" Mr Terrific asked.  
  
"Bomb ... set to blow up in your downtown ... in fifteen minutes or so ... six guys guarding it on a subway train. Come on!" He kept running, hearing Mr Terrific shouting something but not bothering really to listen. Batman had to get the number of that train.   
  
Police cars were converging on the area as he reached the end of the parking lot. Batman scaled   
a chest-high chainlink fence. A few moments, he reached the top of the steps and tried the switchhouse door. It was locked. Two men were inside, one on the phone, both looked frightened. Batman took a half step back, then forward, his left foot punching through the glass in the door. He reached his hand through the hole in the glass and twisted the knob, then threw the door open.  
  
He stepped in, glass crunching under his black-booted feet. He grabbed the front of the shirt of the man on the telephone. "We're the good guys ... so help us out ... now!" Get on the radio to the train that left here about fifteen minutes ago ... stop them. There's a bomb on board laced with nerve gas set to go off in less than fifteen minutes ... right in the middle of downtown. Now move!"  
  
The man dropped the receiver. A voice still came scratchily off the line. Batman replaced the swinging receiver on its cradle.  
  
The man was at the radio set. "This is South switchyard ... calling train sixteen oh-one ... come back --"  
  
There wasn't any answer for a moment.  
  
"This is sixteen oh-one. What's up?"  
  
"Some guys in funny costumes here claim they got a bomb on board your train ... set to blow up when you reach downtown. Bomb with nerve gas, they say --"  
  
The voice came over the speaker, "Hey, Bob, what the hell you guys --"  
  
The voice went dead -- static.  
  
Batman grabbed the microphone in his left fist, ramming down the talk button. "Whoever it is on the train ... you six men ... you've been fooled by False-Face. He's killing you, too. The bomb's set to go off when you hit downtown. Your timer's a fake ... Flyboy told us ... come in -- come in --"  
  
Nothing.  
  
"A bomb with nerve gas ... you'll kill thousands, even yourselves."  
  
Nothing.  
  
"All those people," he said, staring at the other men in the room.  
  
Batman looked at Mr Terrific.  
  
The Caped Crusader closed his eyes, shaking his head to clear it, to think. He looked up at the man who had used the radio. "Bob, is that your name?"  
  
"Yes, I'm Bob --"  
  
"Right," Batman said. "Bob, call the police. Tell them what's happening. Tell them the JSA is going to stop the train even if we have to derail it. Not sure if a concussion like that would --"  
  
"It would go off that way," Mr Terrific said soberly, all the usual bravado of his voice gone. "Remember, I'm an explosives expert. It'd go off sky-high."  
  
"Then we won't derail it." Repeating the number, he said to Bob, "Sixteen oh-one -- right?"  
  
"Right," Bob confirmed, sweating his face white. "I really believe you, hell! We just don't get guys dressed as you breaking in here everyday."  
  
Batman turned to Mr Terrific. "We take one whirlybird, you, me, Hourman, Flyboy, Wildcat, and Sandman. We'll leave Dr Mid-Nite to explain it."  
  
Sirens were loud now. Through the glass of the switch house blue lights appeared to be everywhere. "What about the police?" Mr Terrific asked.  
  
"Do anything short of killing them if they get in our way. But we must get to the blue-and-white chopper. Come on." Batman started for the door.  
  
With Mr Terrific beside him, he started to run. Gateway City police, unfamiliar with who Batman was, were racing toward them, shouting, "Police, hold it!"  
  
The nearest police officer, a revolver in his right hand, started for him. Batman wheeled half right, his left foot snaking out in a double kick to the chest, hammering the man back against two more officers.  
  
Someone shot at him. The slug ricocheted off pavement near his feet. Batman yelled at the officers, "There's a bomb on train sixteen oh-one that is laced with dangerous nerve gas ... take that yellow-and-white whirlybird up and follow us if you want to, but help us to stop it.!"  
  
"Surrender!" a police officer yelled, edging toward them, gun drawn.   
  
"The Chopper's right behind us," Mr Terrific said.  
  
Batman nodded, his eyes never wavering from the crowd, "Dr Mid-Nite?"  
  
"Right here, Batman," came Mid-Nite's voice from behind.  
  
"Get Hourman, Flyboy ... better have Sandman and Wildcat, too. Hourman looked like he was losing blood fast. Get them on the blue-and-white helicopter and cover us while we get airborne. Then straighten this out with the police. You may have to call Wonder Woman in Washington. The train is sixteen oh-one. We're going after it ... try to stop the bombers and disarm the weapon."  
  
"But how --"  
  
"Let you know when I figure it out myself," Batman snapped. The Caped Crusader ticked off thirty seconds in his head.  
  
"All right, they're aboard. I'm staying behind," Dr Mid-Nite shouted.  
  
While looking at the crowd and the officers, Batman edged toward the chopper. Mr Terrific was climbing aboard, visible out of his left peripheral vision.  
  
Then Batman jumped aboard. He sat at the controls and revved the engine and started to lift off. The police were closing in. Dr Mid-Nite would handle the situation in his usual congenial, diplomatic style.  
  
"Let's get going!" Mr Terrific shouted over the whir of the rotors.  
  
Batman just looked at him, nodding.  
  
"What the hell are we doing?" Hourman asked.  
  
The Caped Crusader did not glance over at him. He was busy banking the chopper steeply as he picked up the highway beneath him. On the subway tracks running alongside, he saw the train.  
  
"Well?" Hourman's voice demanded.  
  
"Mr Terrific and I have to get on that train, get inside --" Batman craned his neck to look at Billy Mason. "Okay, Flyboy, I hear you're one of the best helicopter pilots there is. Well, now's the time to do your stuff. You have to get this thing steady enough that we can climb down, then fly it up and away and follow us."  
  
"Like hell!" Flyboy snarled.  
  
"If you don't do exactly as I say, we'll die when that weapon blows, so Hourman here won't have anything to lose. Even with one arm out of commission he'll rip you apart, dismember you, gouge your eyes out, the whole nine yards, Flyboy. And in case Hourman gets tired, Wildcat there'll help him."  
  
"Right on," Wildcat grunted.  
  
Batman asked, "So, you going to cooperate or get your head twisted off?"  
  
He glanced back at Billy, whose eyes gave the answer.  
  
"Good boy, Flyboy. Maybe you'll get fifty or sixty consecutive life sentences for helping us out, who knows."  
  
"Who are you guys?" Flyboy pleaded.  
  
Batman and rest of the crimefighters ignored the question. The Caped Crusader started dropping his altitude, skimming over the traffic now over the lanes of the highway, trying to read the number on the train as he passed it. The lead car's number panel showed something besides sixteen oh-one. He gunned the aircraft, climbing, heading over the tracks again.  
  
"Remember, Flyboy," Batman shouted, seeing the next train ahead of them. "Do exactly as I say. Then when I'm gone, do what Hourman there says."  
  
"Can I rip him apart now, Batman, huh?" Hourman asked.  
  
"Not yet," Batman replied, bringing the chopper down again over the in-bound lanes of the highway. He skimmed the traffic trying to see the lead car.  
  
Then Mr Terrific spoke. "That's it, Batman! Sixteen oh-one."  
  
"Great," Batman rasped. "Get Flyboy down here." To his right he saw Billy Mason and Sandman changing places. "Okay, I'm giving you the controls at the count of three. Fly well, Mason, for your sake." The chopper climbed and dropped as Flyboy took over. "Getting the feel of it?" the Caped Crusader asked.  
  
"Right," Mason said, looking at him a moment, saying nothing else.  
  
"Get us over the train, wherever you can. Watch for the power cables that run near the tracks."  
  
"I've done tougher than this," Flyboy snarled.  
  
Batman unbuckled his seat restraint, turning to Mason standing behind him. He moved toward the pilot door, looking at Flyboy. "I'm ready when you are." Gotham's avenger ticked off the numbers in his head. He estimated they had about ten minutes left.  
  
"That thing's going pretty darn fast," Mr Terrific shouted over the slipstream. Both the pilot's side door and the passenger door were open slightly, and the wind whistled loudly through the cockpit.  
  
The train was approaching a station. The helicopter was closing in now. The red warning lights on the track flashed to stop the train, but it was neither stopping nor slowing.  
  
"They're panicking, trying to get to as close to downtown as fast as they can!" Batman shouted.  
  
The helicopter dropped, skimming perhaps twenty feet over the roof of the train. Flyboy shouted, "I'm setting over the lead car, then matching my speed so I can drop you on the roof of the last car. Best I can do!"  
  
The Masked Manhunter of Gotham City looked at him through his cowl, nodding.  
  
The helicopter was going in. The lead car was beneath them now. Batman stepped out onto the runner, holding on to the doorframe. The door fought him as the slipstream tried to push it closed. He could see Mr Terrific's lower legs and feet -- the door for the passenger ingress blocked the rest of his green-clad body.  
  
Billy Mason expertly avoided the high tension lines flanking them as he slowed the helicopter to match the speed of the train. Batman looked down at the traffic. The rushing wind distorted his features and whipped at his cape.  
  
The helicopter was settling, six feet over the rear car now, as Hourman shouted, "He says do it now!"  
  
Batman jumped, seeing a blur as Mr Terrific jumped, too. The Caped Crusader's feet impacted against the curved roof of the car. He spread-eagled himself with his hands splayed across the roof.  
  
Batman twisted around. Mr Terrific was slightly behind and beside him.  
  
The World's Greatest Detective shouted at Mr Terrific. "Remember, six of them, probably only with handguns. But they're desperate. If they believed me, they already know they're dead, and if they didn't --"  
  
Batman heard two loud thumps behind him on the roof. Wildcat and Sandman had landed to assist.  
  
"Hey, Batman, just like in the old days -- you and me fighting side by side for once, huh?"  
  
The Masked Manhunter's lip twitched as he started to crawl toward the rest of the car.  
  
He looked skyward, but the helicopter was out of sight. His fingers reached for the edge of the roof, pulling him toward it. There was no way to guard against the six bombers waiting for him there, so he swung his left leg down. When his leg didn't get shot off, Batman figured it was okay, and he swung the rest of his body down and in. His face was just above the train car's roof as he glanced forward. The purplish gray of the skyline for Gateway City's downtown area was ahead of him.  
  
The Caped Crusader dropped to the platform and shoved his back against the wall flanking the door leading into the car.  
  
He could see Mr Terrific's feet now. Batman estimated that there was maybe eight minutes left.  
  
Mr Terrific cleared the roof and was down. "We go? Or do we wait for Wildcat and Sandman?"  
  
"We need to move now," replied the Masked Vigilante from Gotham City as he tried the door handle. It didn't open.  
  
"Damn!" Mr Terrific snarled.  
  
Batman reached to his utility belt and pulled out a small acetylene torch.   
  
"Don't have much time," he said as he set the torch at its highest level. "I'll cut the lock as quick as I can."  
  
The intense, white-hot flame cut through the metal lock mechanism like a hot knife through butter.  
  
Mr Terrific reached out to the lock, quickly drawing his bare hand back. "Hot," Batman observed, then turned half right, kicking his left heel back at it. The door lock fell away. Mr Terrific opened the door toward them and went through, with the Caped Crusader stepping in behind him. Mr Terrific shouted, "Everybody get back!"  
  
Batman started down the center aisle as Mr Terrific took up the drag spot.  
  
The Masked Manhunter reached the end of the car. He tried the door there and it opened effortlessly.  
  
He stepped onto the platform, then jumped to the next car platform. The rail was a blur under him. He started to open the rear door of the car. The glass shattered, and Batman dodged left   
and back, shouting to Mr Terrific, "Look out!"  
  
The Caped Crusader looked to the right. Two trains were stopped at a siding track. The police were working it now, sidetracking other trains, clearing the rails. Batman looked above him through the break between the two car roofs. He saw a dark blur jump from one roof to the other, followed by a second blur.  
  
Batman looked to Mr Terrific and pointed upwards as he mouthed the words "Wildcat and Sandman."  
  
Mr Terrific nodded in acknowledgement as he listened to the clicking of wheels against the steel rails and the hiss of the slipstream.  
  
"You ready? Make it two guns at least. The shots were too fast for aimed fire out of a conventional gun."  
  
"Gotcha." Mr Terrific nodded.  
  
Batman reached under the window frame. More shots. Shattered glass sprayed his costumed left arm. He twisted the door handle, swinging the door back and out toward him, then ducking beside it. More gunfire poured through the open doorway. The glass opposite them -- the front door of the last car -- disintegrated.  
  
The Masked Manhunter reached to his utility belt once more and pulled out a smoke bomb pellet. He threw the pellet through the doorway, hoping it would blind the shooters.   
  
He tossed in another smoke bomb pellet as he raced through the doorway, throwing himself down between two seats. Mr Terrific ran through as Batman looked up.  
  
Two men were at the far end of the car, which was otherwise empty. They were coughing from the effects of the smoke that was released in the confined space of the rail car.  
  
Gotham's Caped Crusader reached to the rear of his utility belt again and brought out a couple of Bat-A-Rangs. Even as bullets from the two shooters in the front of the car chewed up the seat backs that protected Batman and Mr Terrific, the Masked Vigilante hurled his makeshift weapons at the gunmen. The Bat-A-Rangs hit the armed men and they went down, their guns silent.  
  
Batman stopped at the forward section of the car. There were two cars ahead -- the second, the lead car. The bomb would be there -- Batman could feel it.  
  
The cowled hero didn't even bother to estimate how much time was left. If there was enough time and he and Mr Terrific had enough skill, the bombers would be stopped, the bomb itself defused. If there wasn't, counting seconds wouldn't help.  
  
"Ready?" Batman asked his colleague.  
  
"Ready, Batman." Mr Terrific kicked the door outward, jumping across between the two cars, framing himself beside the door. The Caped Crusader followed him.  
  
Buildings shot past them. The train lurched crazily. The clicking of the wheels against the rails sounded louder now.  
  
Batman reached for the door handle, twisting it and pushing the door open toward Mr Terrific. Batman waited for a moment.  
  
Once more, the Masked Manhunter pulled out a smoke pellet from the utility belt and threw it as far as he could into the car. Batman shouted, "Get down everybody, below the seats." Then he dived under the muzzleflashes of the rifle, half rolling and coming up on his knees. A single gunman at the end of the car was firing an M-1 rifle. Passengers on both sides of Batman screamed in horror. The Caped Crusader heard Mr Terrific yell, "Batman, I'm hit!" Batman hurled a Bat-A-Rang at the gunman. The shooter was struck and went down after his back hit the door behind him. The door flew open, and the body slipped from sight.  
  
Batman ran forward. Passengers shrank from him. The cowled hero shouted, "Terrific, can you walk?"  
  
"Yes, but my tailor isn't going to be too pleased."  
  
The Caped Crusader stopped at the open doorway.  
  
He looked back. Mr Terrific was limping, his left thigh soaked with blood.  
  
"Ready?" Batman asked. "This is the big one ... three of them ... the bomb .. the whole ball of wax."  
  
"Let's do it," Mr Terrific said.  
  
Batman dodged through the open doorway, jumping across the gap between the cars. They were almost in the heart of downtown Gateway City.   
  
The end of the line was near -- the main commuter station in the heart of the financial district.  
  
The irony of the thought struck Batman as he watched Mr Terrific hobble across, slowed by the leg wound.  
  
"Like last time, Batman?"  
  
"Yes, like last time ... only way," the Masked Manhunter said, looking up as a thought came to his mind.  
  
Batman worked the door handle, letting the door fly open. "Get down!" he shouted as he readied another smoke pellet.  
  
Gunfire seemed to pour through the open doorway as Mr Terrific peered inside. He saw the three gunmen firing at him. Batman threw himself into the car, flat onto the aisle. He tried to cram his body behind a seat back. A pretty black girl was huddled there, her eyes wide with fear. "Relax, citizen, we're the good guys," the Caped Crusader said.  
  
He twisted around and hurled the smoke pellet at the shooters.  
  
Gunfire ripped into the seat back above him, dimpling the metal backing. Glass in the windows near him shattered.  
  
He lobbed another smoke pellet. The rail car was filling quickly with dense smoke. The passengers and the gunmen were coughing from the effects of the smoke in the confined space of the car.  
  
Mr Terrific was still outside the door.  
  
Batman sucked in his breath low to the floor. "Surrender, you villians! False-Face was lying. He always lies. The bomb's going off in a minute or so, maybe less --"  
  
"You're a liar!"  
  
"That toggle switch you've got to flick -- whatever it is -- that's a fake timer -- doesn't do anything!"  
  
"Liar!" came another voice.  
  
"You'll burn up, dead. Mass murderers and committing suicide at the same time. We can defuse the bomb, maybe. Give it up. We need to defuse the bomb."  
  
The National Socialist Movement shall be victorious," another voice shouted, coughing. Batman gritted his teeth.  
  
Batman started to get to his feet and shouted, "Now!"  
  
The door behind the gunman crashed open as Wildcat and the Sandman burst in with blinding speed. The three bomb protectors were taken by total surprise. The sound of the commotion was deafening, as was the screaming.  
  
Wildcat pushed the first man into the wall of the rail car and swung two quick jabs to the head to knock the man unconscious.  
  
The Sandman took on the final two and merely used his famous anesthetic gas gun to render his victims immobile.  
  
It was all over in a matter of seconds. The bad guys never knew what had hit them.  
  
But Batman realized that the job wasn't over. The seconds were still ticking away faster than the clicking of the wheels on the steel rails.  
  
Wildcat ripped opened the door of the engineer's compartment. The engineer was shot in the neck. The wound was sucking and pumping. "This guy's still alive."  
  
"Get him out. I'll find the bomb," Mr Terrific gasped.  
  
Wildcat nodded, pulling the man from his round metal stool, easing him to the seat opposite. Batman almost tripped over the body of one of the Nazis. He looked through the window. They were nearly into the downtown section of the city. At the speed they were going, they were on a direct collision course with the train station at the end of the line.  
  
He looked on the floor of the control booth at the metal pedal with rubber treads. It was pressed hard against the floor. He reached down to try to release it. It was a deadman's switch and should work. He tried to pry it up with his fingers, but it wouldn't budge. "I don't know what they did to this," Batman shouted to his fellow crimefighters.  
  
"Never mind that, I found the bomb," Mr Terrific shouted.  
  
Batman left the jammed pedal alone, shouting across the car, "Citizens, we can't stop the train. We need an orderly evacuation to the next car. Then we can uncouple it --"  
  
People were screaming and running, pushing past Mr Terrific and the trunk-sized piece of luggage with the bomb in it.  
  
Batman yelled again, "Citizens! Citizens!"  
  
The Sandman said in a sarcastic tone, "What's this 'citizen' crap?"  
  
"Order, dammit!" Batman shouted. There was a scream, then silence. "Now get into the next car and stay there. We got a bomb to defuse!"  
  
"I got the cowling off ... the timer --" Mr Terrific said in a calm voice.  
  
Batman, Wildcat, and The Sandman moved forward, letting the passengers move around them. Batman dropped to his knees beside Mr Terrific. The timer showed about 90 seconds.  
  
"We'll never --" Wildcat observed.  
  
"Get into the wiring," Batman rasped, helping as Mr Terrific pried the rest of the cowling. It popped free.  
  
Facing them was a sea of wires of almost every color.  
  
"Oh, brother, this is like what they gave us in bomb school -- double blinds, blinds, false detonator triggers, the whole shot. It'll take a bomb-disposal team twenty years to figure this out! Here, this one --"And Mr Terrific clipped a wire with a pocket knife against his thumb. But the timer kept running. "That should've been it. Hell -- I --"  
  
"Try another one -- we have nothing to lose," Sandman shouted.  
  
"But which one? Jeez --"  
  
Sandman reached past him. Mr Terrific stayed his hands. "Sandman, you'll blow us all up!"  
  
Batman looked at the timer -- forty-one seconds.  
  
"We'll die, anyway," Sandman replied.  
  
"Wait --" Mr Terrific moved his hands over the wires, saying almost to himself, "If this creep was so damn tricky, maybe he did the ultimate, the obvious thing -- naw --"  
  
"What?" Batman growled.  
  
"Just turn off the switch for the damn timer. Only a joker, a crazy guy would do that."  
  
Batman winced at the sound of the name of his arch-nemisis.  
  
The Caped Crusader reached for the switch, his eyes locking with Mr Terrific's. "If it isn't, we're dead," Mr Terrific told him.  
  
Batman shrugged, his right thumb over the switch. He flipped it down. The timer stopped -- three seconds.  
  
Wildcat counted silently to himself after glancing at the timer. One second, two seconds --  
  
Nothing happened.  
  
Through his gas mask, The Sandman screamed like a woman. "Hey, we're alive!"  
  
Mr Terrific looked up. The train station they were passing read Godfrey Avenue.  
  
Mr Terrific pushed himself to his feet, having difficulty because of the gunshot wound to his leg. "The hell we are," he said. "Less than a mile and this train slams into the end of the line at the central train station!"  
  
"I got the bomb," Sandman shouted.  
  
Wildcat said nothing, lurching toward the body of the still-breathing driver. He grabbed the man's shoulders and hauled him up, blood spurting from his neck wound across Wildcat's gloved hands.  
  
Mr Terrific's own right leg pained him as he started to move.  
  
Wildcat bent his right shoulder into the man, picking him up, slinging him across his back.  
  
Sandman followed behind, watching Mr Terrific limping. The suitcase with the bomb was under The Sandman's left arm, while his right hand supported it.  
  
Batman shouted to Wildcat, "When we get across, I'm going to uncouple this thing and you find the brake for the next car back."  
  
"Right!" came the reply.  
  
Mr Terrific glanced through the shot-out window. They were passing the Wyoming Street station -- three or four blocks.  
  
Mr Terrific was through the door, with Wildcat behind him. He threw the unconscious man into the arms of The Sandman, who'd set down the bomb.  
  
Batman bent between the cars, looking at the tangle of wires and cables.  
  
He took out a knife from his utility belt, flicking it open and hacking at the wires. Then he stopped, placing the knife between his teeth.  
  
Wyoming Street was to his left. He knew he didn't have much time.  
  
He reached down to the chains between the cars, popping them, then to the coupling bolt. The wires would break, he told himself.  
  
He jerked at the coupling bolt -- it was stuck. He jerked again -- it moved a little.  
  
He jerked again -- it was out. The first car lurched ahead, the cables breaking, sparks of electricity flying. The Masked Manhuter threw himself back, looking through the open doorway, climbing to his knees. Wildcat was half in the engineer's box. His right leg had vanished inside it.  
  
Batman staggered as the train jumped and bucked under him. Passengers were screaming. The Caped Crusader fell to his face, his knife clattering to the floor. He looked behind him, ahead down the tracks.  
  
The lead car was heading toward the downtown station. Nothing stood in its way from plowing into the building. The stop barrier at the end of the line was not designed to halt a train going at a high rate of speed.  
  
Mr Terrific covered his ears. The train under him rocked and bumped, its passengers screaming. He turned around, taking his hands from his ears. The screams grew louder. There was a violent shudder.  
  
Then the train stopped and he had the feeling of rising in the air.  
  
Mr Terrific remembered to breathe.  
  
There was more screaming, and he looked around.  
  
He watched through the windows as the train car was rose into the air. Suddenly, the motion of being lifted stopped.  
  
Passengers continued to scream, not knowing what was happening. Would they fall from the sky? Mr Terrific had no answer.  
  
Wildcat watched in wonderment. Unlike most of the people in the train car, he had no fear. He was fairly certain of what -- or better yet -- who was responsible for this "uplifting" experience.  
  
The Sandman watched in fascination as the out of control lead rail car headed toward the downtown train station. Even while he felt the car he was in rise into the air, he watched as the lead car also began to lift off the ground as if being picked up by an invisible hand.   
  
Something -- or someone -- had stopped the potentially devastating event from happening! Something -- or someone -- with immense power.  
  
It was only a matter moments until a voice reached the heads of Batman, Mr Terrific, Wildcat, and The Sandman. A deep, dark voice that sounded like it came from the grave.  
  
"May I be of assistance my fellow Justice Society members?" the voice echoed in their heads.  
  
"Spooky!" Wildcat exclaimed.  
  
"The Spectre," Batman corrected.  
  
  
***  
  
  
Dr Mid-Nite interrupted his thoughts. "Batman?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"No chance, I suppose, well that False-Face plans to use the VX nerve gas one cansister at a time?"  
  
Batman looked up at him. "He'll try to use one or two, then tell us what he wants."   
  
"Will we be ready for him next time?" Mid-Nite asked.  
  
The face of the Caped Crusader from Gotham City turned grim. "We better be ... For the sake of the world, we better be."  
  
  
-- End of JSA: Atrocity --  
  
  
Author's Note: I've enjoyed writing this story a great deal. I plan to write several more Justice Society of America stories, as well as solo stories starring individuals from the group. 


End file.
